


The Hematic

by Ohtze



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Horror, Interspecies Romance, Multi, Mystery, Other, Pregnancy, Psychological Horror, Time Travel, Wow the tags get super specific on this site, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 225,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohtze/pseuds/Ohtze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was crucial, Tommy had said, that they arrived in the Third Age. The Third Age was the best age. That sweet spot in the timeline where they could do the most good without destroying the future. Tommy was dead though, and Lucy was lost: deposited unto the care of one hapless Glorfindel. The Noldor were not to be trifled with, she learned belatedly. Doom was never far behind them. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tommy

**Author's Note:**

> A word of warning: I always write M (or above), and with that rating there comes certain expectations that most readers should be familiar with (violence, mature themes, etc.). Suffice to say, things will be dark. This is the only time that I'll mention it.
> 
> Disclaimer: This fanwork is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. All creative works off which this fanwork is based are the property of their respective authors. No copyright infringement is intended.

"Ready to jump?"

When the dust had settled and the screaming had stopped, Lucy thought maybe, probably – most definitely, if she were a rational human being – that she should have said _no_. That maybe, had she been thinking clearly about the time that came _after_ , she would have known this entire excursion was an absolutely awful idea. Her judgment was impaired, she knew. It had always been impaired, and by now it was a long, deep-seated problem that her parents despaired over.

Maybe, she decided with the gravity of an obituary announcement, she should have aimed for something _tangible_.

Lucy hadn't thought anything would happen, really. Nothing but their brains painting the pavement and their limbs bending like rubber. The disassociation was addictive in an odd, off-putting sort of way. Often, her grasp on reality and unreality was tenuous at best, the two intermingling together so thoroughly that she suffered from frequent migraines. During times like these, where her subconscious and the real world bled together, Lucy’s mind would detach. It brought out a sort of fearlessness, the kind of fearlessness that came from chemical signals getting mixed up in the brain. But they were here now, the **two** of them, in a place that shouldn't have existed.

Already, Lucy regretted it.

They had landed somewhere deep in the mountains, her and Tommy; huge slate gray peaks turning gold in the sunlight that rose up into the cloud cover so high even eagles couldn't soar above them. Emerging onto a cliff top would have been ideal, but they’d been extremely unlucky, expelled out of nothingness into a pocket of air over twenty feet above a jagged, pernicious slope. It had taken less than a second for the two of them to start falling. Lucy's leg had broken in three different places, and one of her lower right ribs had fractured. Tommy had fallen head first, her skull splitting open like a rotten cantaloupe left out in the sun. Her blood had splattered against the stone steppes like so much red paint, brains on the pavement, and Lucy had screamed. She had screamed until her throat was raw and there was foam at her mouth.

Still, there was nobody that heard her.

In the time _before_ , there had been no magical portal through which to fall into. No period of blackness before the two of them had woken up in a field of fragrant flowers beneath a cornucopia of stars. There had been no elves and no hobbits, no kindly gray wizards greeting quirky young time travelers who became the talk of the town.

There had just been this:

Two girls standing on the edge of a seven-story building, their matching black patent shoes poking out over the edge of the rooftop as they'd looked down at the street below them. Tommy's hand had been firm in hers, small and short and slightly clammy. Her fingernails were painted the prettiest shade of buttercup yellow. Lucy had always adored the color.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she'd asked. Even though they'd been friends forever, the ground beneath them had been looming ominously. Lucy wasn't great with physics, but she’d been fairly certain that if they wanted to die, they would need a taller building.

Tommy had nodded, her pale cheeks flushed as her short brown hair spiraled around her face. Beneath them a police car barreled past, sirens blaring.

"Yeah." Tommy had said. "Yeah, I'm sure it will work. We'll make it."

Lucy hadn't thought it would work – you couldn't fall into a place that didn't exist, after all – but Tommy had insisted that jumping was the only way they would find it. Lucy had played along, as she'd been there for different reasons. Obsessive reasons, born out of a need for control and desire to be first and foremost in Tommy's head space.

She and her best friend were alike in many ways. They wore matching gray sweaters and matching black shoes and went to the same nondescript school in the east end of the city. The only true difference between them was that Lucy felt too little, while Tommy felt too much. _Dollface_ , the boys crooned whenever Lucy walked by. _The Whore and the Hag_ , the girls at their school called them. Lucy ignored it, because she was an awful sort of person in an odd sort of way, and rarely did she feel anything beyond annoyance. But Tommy – dear, sweet Tommy – had never forgotten which side of the dichotomy she fell on.

"I want to be beautiful," the shorter girl had said one night through her tears, as they huddled beside the stairs to the subway. Her gray sweater had been stained with splatters of ink, a gift from their classmates. "I want to **be** someone."

"You're someone to me." Lucy had argued. She loved Tommy more than anyone, but it wasn't enough for the other girl.

"I'm going to change it all," she'd said through her teeth, her jaw clenched. "I'm going to **save** them."

Lucy hadn't been so sure, but she went along with it and played her part dutifully. But these mountains so tall that even eagles couldn't soar above them: this was Tommy's world. Her desires and dreams, manifested into reality. It had nothing to do with Lucy, and she hated it.

On the rooftop, the wind had been cool against their bare legs, their calves prickling with goose bumps beneath the hems of their pleated skirts. Across Tommy's shoulder, the girl had donned her worn-out tweed bag that she'd stubbornly clung to since middle school. Inside the bag were her precious books. “My keys to the kingdom,” Lucy’s best friend had jokingly said, only Tommy had sort of believed it.

"I'll need them." Tommy had told her, right before they jumped. "For when we get to the other side. I need something to remember all their names and all the places. They have lots of names, you know. Long names. You should remember them too."

"I love you." Lucy had said. It was the truth. Tommy had squeezed her hand, her buttercup yellow nails scraping along Lucy's plain ones. The wind had been cold. Lucy loved Tommy, but Tommy loved another. The one that lived in her books.

"See you on the other side." Tommy had whispered. Then, they had jumped.

* * *

It was important, Tommy had said, that they arrived in the Third Age.

The First Age was too dangerous, the second too muddled, and by the time the fourth rolled around they would be too late to stop anything, much less make any significant difference. Lucy hadn't paid attention to her at the time, because it had been Tommy's mad dream of becoming a prophet. Lucy hadn't thought anything would come of it but blood splattering the pavement and two closed-case coffins: an end to the endless malaise that constantly seemed to plague her.

Tommy had believed it would work with a passion that was terrifying, dragging out maps and going over all her dog-eared books with a fine-toothed comb until the paperbacks were falling apart and fraying around the edges. The Third Age, Tommy had said with a feverish sort of excitement, was the best place for them, and definitely the safest. There were humans there. Lots of humans and lots of information, so she would be able to accurately predict what was happening. Going back too far would change too many things. Who knew how many deaths it would result in.

_Lots of deaths,_ Lucy had hoped, because she’d been a destructive sort of creature back then, but she hadn't said so aloud.

"The best time for us to land is a week before Gandalf arrives, when he visits Bilbo." Tommy had mused, biting her bottom lip in consternation. "The first time, I mean, when Thorin's party comes to the Shire. I wish we could go later, but by that time it's too late to stop it. Too many people die."

Tommy always wanted to be the hero. She wanted to **be** there, to do something. Lucy had fueled her delusions with the all the delicacy of a sociopath on a bender. Only once did she try to stop it.

"You're perfect the way you are," she'd said one night as they'd packed up their books. "You don't need to be anyone's hero but mine."

It hadn't been enough for Tommy. It never was. Only Tommy was dead now – dead in a fall that was supposed to kill them both, dead like dirt – with her brains splattered across the stone slope and her bones built like rubber. Lucy resented her for it. She didn’t mean to, of course, but she still did. It wasn't so much that she minded the silence; abandonment was simply something she didn’t dealt well with.

Lucy was trapped on a sleet gray mountain, now, with her leg broken in three different places. Her only companions were Tommy's corpse and Tommy's books. In her mind, there was a mantra; the whispered words _how dare she leave me_ repeating over and over again. The anger that flooded her limbs was hot and instant.

_I shouldn’t have jumped,_ Lucy thought, but it was too late for that.

It was a sunny day in Middle-earth, but farther up the cliffs the peaks were covered in snow. The air was crisp and chilly without a tree line to protect her, and between the mountain passes the wind whistled as if it had a voice of it’s own. If she looked farther down, Lucy could see a vibrant green valley at the base of the mountains, still dotted here and there with clumps of white. The mountains themselves were in a circle, and inside that circle the alpine field stretched outwards in a sea of grass. A ravine cut along the side of the meadow, heading southwest, and in the center of it there was yet another sheer gray rock face, upon which a white city sat.

Abruptly, Lucy started coughing.

The atmosphere was too fresh and thick, and in her lungs there was a burning sensation, like she was breathing in miasma and couldn't breathe it out. Lucy gasped, struggling to keep up with the influx of oxygen rich air, but it was too much, too soon. She didn't know where she was, but she couldn't move far with her broken leg, and in that moment she felt like she was choking. _I'm alone, I'm alone. How dare you die on me,_ the mantra continued.

Still coughing, Lucy began dragging herself down the slope towards her best friend. It wasn't that far, only ten feet or so, but it felt like a mile, as the stones beneath her hands were sharp and brittle as glass. Each time she grasped one, the rocks cut into her palms, leaving them cross-hatched like ham. Lucy didn't talk, because she wasn't one for words, but she did start to cry. They were the fat, silent tears of her childhood; the ones she’d been prone to before the malaise came. At one point, Lucy tried to walk, but it wasn't possible with the breaks in her leg, so she simply pulled her mangled limb behind her. _Move_ , she told herself, _move faster,_ but her urgency wasn't driven by a sense of fear, so much as it was propelled by a self-righteous anger.

How dare Tommy die on her. How **dare** she. It wasn't fair. This had been Tommy’s idea, not hers, and Lucy didn’t want to be there.

Around her the wind whistled, snow drifting off the mountain peaks to disappear on the crystalline air. Whenever she took in a shuddering breath, the pain was so blinding she saw stars. Lucy had a horrible feeling there was something poking through the skin beneath her shirt – most likely a rib – but was too focused on reaching her best friend to check it. Above her, the eagles circled inwards. The giant birds appeared no bigger than sparrows they were so high up, but if Lucy squinted she could make out the gleam of brownish-hued feathers. As she stared, one of the eagles screeched and another veered off, diving in the direction of the city that sat in the center of the valley. The metropolis was layered like a wedding cake, with each level of the structure appearing smaller than the last. If she'd been feeling less detached and swamped with despair, Lucy might have found the sight of it breathtaking. As it stood, she was too upset to recognize the city, and too distraught over Tommy to care.

Tommy had said there would be a white city in this world. The white capital of Gondor, with its white tree and its white guards and its seven white rings rising upwards. More than once, she'd told Lucy about the kingdom of men with its ill-fated king; about a sword shattered by a demigod named Sauron, and how Isildur's corpse had been left to rot on the banks of the river Anduin.

"That's where we need to go." Tommy had said. "To Gondor, in the south. It's the heart of everything. The elves won't take us seriously, but humans will. We're their kind."

"So?"

"So we go there, and we'll have access to everything. Think about it. We can change the **world**."

But Tommy couldn't change anything now, for good or for bad. Tommy was dead on a mountain slope, with her brains splattered everywhere like an overripe melon. As Lucy reached her, she collapsed in an exhausted heap, her face wet with tears and darkened with smudges of dirt. Beside her, Tommy was still. Her best friend's hair had been a nondescript brown, her features forgettable, but she’d also been kind. It was not hard to be kinder than Lucy, but Tommy – dear, sweet, broken-limbed Tommy – had been **especially** nice, and Lucy had adored her because of it.

"Tommy." Lucy said, her voice coming out as a croak. Another gust of wind whistled its way down the rock face to tangle itself in her hair. Beside her, Tommy's gaze was endless, her gray sweater lightly splattered with red. "Tommy." she said again, her hands curling into the loose stones beneath her. "Tommy, get up. We made it. You have to save the world."

Tommy didn't answer.

Around them there was nothing but the eerie cadence of the winter wind, mingling with the sharp, echoing screech of a bird. Lucy swallowed hard. The taste of failure coating her tongue was a combination of grit and dirt and saliva. She’d never thought they would make it – it was the only reason she'd jumped, oddly enough – but even in the deepest, darkest corners of her mind, she'd still harbored fantasies. In Middle-earth, there would’ve been no one who knew Tommy like she did, and Lucy would have become special to the other girl. Needed. They could have kept their secrets safe between them.

Those secrets were scattered now, free and open for the taking. The pages fluttered in the icy wind, a haphazard scrabble of Tommy's books mingled with her handwritten notes. The silence of the mountain was deafening, and Lucy’s fingers and bare legs slowly going numb from the chill.

Trying to ignore the burning sensation in her chest, she grabbed the nearest book with shaking fingers and began methodically shredding it. Lucy grit her teeth, crumpling up the remains and tossing them down the rocky slope to be lost between the crags. In front of her the white city shimmered like a slab of marble, its spires encrusted with beams of light. It wasn't Tommy's white city, however, and because Lucy had never thought to pay attention to her best friend, she didn't know the name of it.

_I'm going to_ _die_ , she thought, and instantly she hated the notion. Lucy didn't care about dying, except that she didn't want to do it alone. Hands shaking with rage and slow building hysteria, she shred the first book, and then another, her breaths turning ragged as she tried to hold back the hurt that was building inside. The pages fluttered away from her, snapping off at sharp angles on errant gusts of the wind. When she got to the third book, Lucy stopped, choking on a sob. She couldn't destroy it. It was Tommy's favourite: a single volume with a dragon guarding a mound of gold etched upon the cover. It was the first book of the series that Tommy had read, and the one that had begun her obsession.

"I want to go there." Tommy had told her one lazy summer afternoon, before people had started calling her ugly and putting pins on her chair. Her best friend had pointed to a page in the book, the words appearing like partially smudged squiggles beneath her blunted finger. It was a passage concerning an elf-king that lived in a forest. He was talking to a dwarf lord about a city inside a mountain, and the dragon called _Smaug_ who lived there.

"See this? This is Thranduil, and he's a Sinda. Oropher was his father."

Lucy had frowned at the page where Tommy's short finger was pointed, thoroughly uninterested in the subject.

"I don't see anything about an _Oropher_ , whatever that is."

"That's because he's in another book. _The Silmarillion_." Tommy had said, matter-of-factly. "Honestly, I wish Thranduil wasn't in this book either. He's not how the elves should be."

"What do you mean?"

Tommy wrinkled her nose, folding the cover of the book back over itself so it fit snugly between her hands. Then she’d shrugged. "Wiser, I guess. Less angry. They're supposed to be everything humans aren't. That's what makes them so great."

"Nobody's perfect."

"They are. That's why it's a tragedy that so many of them died, why they had to leave Middle-earth. It isn't fair. You'll see what I mean when I show you the other books."

The books were ragged now, the words fading from some of the pages, but there were doodles in the margins. Little sketches and scribbles, complete with Tommy's handwritten notes as she'd prepared for their trip to another world. On the first page written in crisp blue-black ink were four short words in her best friend’s messy scrawl, placed next to a heart.

_Tommy and Lucy forever._

Immediately, Lucy broke down and began bawling.

She cried for herself first, because she was sixteen and only human. Lucy cried because she was lost, because she didn't recognize the towering gray mountains or the sparkling white city far in the distance. She cried over Tommy, too, and quite a bit. Tommy, who was six months younger and three inches shorter. Tommy, who loved buttercup yellow and banana chocolate chip muffins and liked the smell of the air right after a thunderstorm. Lucy cried and she cried, and when the snot and tears coating her face combined into a singular mess, she dropped the novel and curled in on herself next to her friend. Her chest hurt and her lungs were burning, and inside her head the mantra went from _how dare you die on me_ to _don't leave me, don’t leave me. I’m scared._

Eventually the sobbing stopped, and when it did Lucy just laid there, her head pooled on Tommy's chest as her tears froze to her cheeks. It wouldn't take long, she consoled herself. Maybe longer than Tommy, but she was bleeding too, albeit sluggishly, and it was cold. If she didn't bleed to death, she would freeze first. Hypothermia was an exacting mistress, and it was coming down the mountain slope to claim her. Tommy's hair felt wonderful against her cheek, soft and smelling like bathwater.

"I have to be clean." Tommy had said as she'd scrubbed her hair dry with a towel, only hours before they'd jumped. "We should both be clean before the jump. It might be awhile before we're able to take a bath."

Slowly as her limbs grew numb, Lucy's mind detached from her body. For that she was overwhelmingly grateful. It was a comfortable feeling, a familiar not-feeling devoid of emotion, and one that she coveted.

When _they_ finally arrived, Lucy was barely able to register their footsteps.

The footsteps sounded like nothing at first, because they **were** nothing: merely the mournful howl of the wind whistling between the peaks of the encircling mountains. Closer still, there was the occasional trill of a bird, and above her the eagles circled, spiraling inwards like vultures.

_Maybe they are vultures,_ Lucy thought blandly, _come to pick over my corpse._ It was a fitting end to her very short life. Then she clued into the loud crunch of booted feet over loose stone, and would have ignored it if the shadow had not fallen upon her. Lucy didn't know what to make of it. A shadow was a shadow, only this one had mass and seemed to be speaking. When it poked her with something hard, she flinched and came back to herself. She could feel the pebbles digging into her back, the way the wind pressed her grey sweater against the curves of her upper body. When Lucy blinked and focused, she realized she was looking at a man's face looming over her. Only there was something terribly wrong with his features.

The stranger had two eyes, two arms and two legs, but his skin was so pale that it bordered on luminescent. Even lying down, Lucy could tell that he was staggeringly tall. As the stranger drew his bow back, part of his hood fell aside, the motion revealing black hair and an ear that was sharply pointed along the cartilage. Lucy's eyes widened in surprise, her mouth opening into an _O_ before closing again. It was one of Tommy's elves; the Perfect Ones she'd wanted to save, only he didn't quite fit the mental image that her friend had created.

_Look Tommy_ , Lucy wanted to say. _Look. We've found them._

Three other elves were standing behind the first, their arrows notched and pointed. Each of them was dressed in dark blue and purple, with silver chainmail overlaid atop that. Their bows were as tall as they were, the wood of them a blinding white. _Green_ , Lucy thought. _They're supposed to be wearing **green**. _ That's what Tommy had said.

"Esta ar thel." the first elf commanded, near-spitting the words. His hold on his bow tightened, his fingers flexing against the wood as he pointed the arrow towards her temple. Slowly Lucy rolled to the side, coughing loudly as she forced herself into a semi-seated position. The dark-haired elf let her, but when she reached for one of the books, he spat out a hissing word and darted forward; kicking it aside and pointing the arrow directly at her cheek, the metal hovering an inch from her eye.

"Esta ar thel!" he repeated.

Lucy couldn't help but think that if she'd planned for the after – beyond the closed-case coffins and blood on the pavement and sirens wailing – that she would have known what the elf was saying. Tommy would have known. Tommy **always** knew.

"I have to learn Sindarin," she'd told Lucy one night, feverishly flipping through her notes from the printed pages of an online dictionary. Lucy had munched her way through a handful of crackers, fulfilling a salt craving for no reason other than that she was bored.

"You never know when you might need it." Tommy had said. "The Common Tongue might not be English."

Lucy looked at the elf, blinking once, before clenching her fingers and relaxing them again. She'd made it. She'd arrived in Tommy's dream world, only she didn't want to be there. She never had.

"Esta ar thel!" the elf yelled. Lucy didn't have an answer. She had questions, though. Questions about a white city that wasn't the one she wanted. Slowly, through the haze of pain and mental detachment, Tommy's plan – their plan – was coming back to her in bits and pieces. It was crucial, Tommy had said, that they arrived in the Third Age. The Third Age was the best age: the place where they could do the most good without destroying the future. Lucy wasn’t one for planning, but she’d thought she’d make a go of it, just in case.

She said the first thing that came to mind. The only thing she could remember, really. The thing that Tommy had wanted to stop.

"Where's Sauron?" she asked.

The elf turned white as a sheet, his expression morphing in fury. Then he moved faster than Lucy could track, the end of his bow cracking loudly across her temple.

The world started spinning. Someone was yelling. The blow was brutal, sending Lucy sprawling across the stone. Tommy's blood was on her hands, the mountain slope cool against her cheek, but all she could think about was the tightness: the sensation of _ripping_ in the space around her.

_Lucy_ , someone whispered, but her senses were fading as everything began to blur. There was another wet _crack_ , then a sudden, blinding lance of pain as someone kicked her hard in the chest. Everything abruptly dialed out, the ringing in her ears and the whispered caress of her name fading to silence.

In the void of unconsciousness, there was nothing. Not even thoughts of Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those of you who have been following me for a while, you’ll know that this story is not new. It’s been up on FF.net for… almost two years now, I think? I’m just migrating/cross-posting my stories here, at a snail’s pace (so for those of you who were following me elsewhere, don’t worry – this is Ohtze. No one’s stolen my story). 
> 
> The Hematic is not complete, but for those of you looking to read all the (currently posted) chapters at once: you can find them on FF.net. The link is on my profile. For those of you looking for a lil’ treat in your inbox: I’ll be posting one chapter per day until I get to the newest batch of chapters, after which I’ll switch to bi-weekly/monthly updates. Originally I’d agonized over where to put this story: whether I should place it in The Hobbit category, The Lord of The Rings, or The Silmarillion, as it contains elements of all three and doesn't fit into a single crossover. But that’s not a problem on here (so thank you Ao3 tagging system). Studying Sindarin has never been my strong point, so while I'll try my best there will be mistakes. Anyone who sees any errors, please don't hesitate to inform me. I'm a stickler for imaginary grammar.
> 
> A big thanks to msg839, EpitomyofShyness and Trebia for beta'ing!
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Esta ar thel – Name and purpose


	2. Dungeon Crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 4, 2016

The first time it became apparent that Lucy was _odd_ was when Annette lost her hair.

Lucy had always been an obsessive girl. Quiet, and pretty by most people's standards. She had a fine boned face and solemn blue eyes that made people treat her differently – treat her better – and a soft, hesitant smile that grandmothers loved to coo over. _Lovely girl,_ they would say when she was younger, pinching her pale cheeks as they patted her head. _Quiet, though. Is there something wrong with her?_

Always, her mother would give the other women a brittle smile and shake her head. Lucy was still no good at making friends.

“Lucy,” her mother would say, again and again. “Lucy, you need to give them space. If you hold on too tightly, they’ll feel trapped.” But Lucy wanted friends, almost desperately: she wanted people to need her as much as she needed them. She was awkward in a way that was always internal, in a way that rarely made itself known unless she decided to speak. Even still, Lucy had been affectionate as a child, prone to tears and sensitivity. She had few companions, and those she did possess she adored to pieces, clinging to with a fervor that was unnerving.

Things took a turn for the worse when she finally hit puberty. It had started early for her, and the first time she'd bled had been during a choir recital. Lucy had a lovely voice – one of the few positive traits she’d possessed beside her face – and as such she'd been standing at the front of the stage, square and center. She hadn't realized anything was wrong until another girl had screamed and pointed to the dark red stain that was soaking through the front of her sundress.

Afterwards, Lucy had simply stood there, palming the redness with eerie detachment until her sixth grade teacher dragged her away. From then on, her verbal ticks and wildly inappropriate comments got worse. She'd been friends with Tommy at the time, and the two girls had grown close. So close that Lucy hadn't wanted anyone else around them.

Tommy had suffered through an early puberty as well, only it wasn't in the way that the other girl had wanted. They both stayed short, but Lucy grew breasts while Tommy grew a thick middle and thighs. For a time – that time _in-between_ , before the teasing got worse – Lucy's best friend had tried to change it with diet and exercise. It didn't work.

"Why do you like me?" Tommy had asked her one day, on the verge of tears after another failed round at the treadmill. "I mean, why do you hang around me? They're right, you know. I look nothing like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not… I'm not pretty."

Lucy hadn't cared. Tommy wasn't meant for exercise, for blood or sweat or tears. She was meant for books, for daydreaming and being brilliant. She was a prophet. Lucy's prophet. If she'd possessed an effigy of her best friend, Lucy would have gotten down and prayed before it. She loved the other girl **that much**. At the time, she'd simply blinked at her owlishly, struggling to find the words. Lucy was no good with words. She never had been, but she wanted to be. She'd wanted to tell Tommy that they were the same – that they were both awkward, just in different ways – only she hadn't been able to parse it.

Instead, Lucy had placed her hands against the center of Tommy's chest; pale and slim with fingers like matchsticks, feeling the beating of Tommy's heart. It was a strong heart. A good heart.

"I like the insides." she'd said, struggling to express herself. "I like the things inside you." Always, it was the warm, wet things past the flesh that Lucy adored. Pretty people were like nail polish, a plastic veneer of processed beauty to hide their internal flaws. Lucy knew this because she was one. They were rotten inside, the beautiful people, rotten like roaches and maggots and worms living in the bowels of someone's intestines. Tommy's insides smelt like sunflowers, but Lucy didn't have the words to express this thought. When she tried to explain it, her best friend had wrinkled her nose in confusion.

"You're really weird, Lucy." she'd said.

"But I like you." It was the only thing that mattered in Lucy's mind.

A few months later the teasing escalated. One girl – Annette – was worse than all the others. Annette was one of the beautiful people, with deep blond hair and pale blue eyes. She'd ruled over their classmates with an iron fist, and she’d hated Tommy for no other reason than that Tommy was _different_. Lucy had hated Annette because she could see the girl's **true** face. The festering pestilence that had twisted deep inside her.

Tommy had sported waist-length hair when they were younger; beautiful brown hair that was several shades lighter than Lucy's, but just as silken. When Annette had cut it off during class one day, snipping Tommy's braid at the base of her neck, Lucy hadn't been there to stop her. It didn't prevent her from hearing about the incident, though, or seeing Tommy's tear-stained face afterwards.

"My hair!" Tommy had screamed as Lucy had held her and cried for them both. "Lucy, my hair!" Lucy was bad with words, but she excelled at exacting vengeance. No one was allowed to hurt those she loved, and she would go to the ends of the earth to make them suffer if they so much as dared to try it.

Lucy’s vengeance was a tenacious thing, devoid of morals and utterly lacking in fear. She followed Annette into the locker room one day: a Wednesday, when all the grade eight classes had tennis practice. Annette took a shower the same time each session, fastidious as she was about her appearance and utterly assured in her belief that she was safe. Slowly, so the other girl couldn't hear her, Lucy had taken off her shoes and her socks, her sweater and book bag. Silent as a ghost, she'd walked into the next stall over. While Annette was distracted, she'd taken the girl's shampoo and mixed the contents with a mild form of acid, a concoction of cleaning fluids and over-the-counter hair remover.

The screaming hadn’t started until she was in the next room over, and by that time it had been too late to save Annette's long blond mane. The day after the incident, Lucy had arrived at the school to see Tommy smiling. Immediately she’d been filled with contentment. Tommy was happy, so she was happy. Vengeance was served.

It was the insides the mattered. The guts and the bones, the blood and the brains. External beauty was just a by-product.

* * *

 When Lucy woke up, she was in a cell.

Around her the stone walls were an awful mixture of gray swirled with green, and the room was small, barely six by four feet across. From her position atop a narrow cot, Lucy could hear the muted roar of rushing water from a nearby ravine; could smell the slightly damp scent that clung to the air around her like rainwater. Everything was so coated in moss that she was sure the cell hadn't been used in ages. Her head was pounding, her tongue feeling thick inside her mouth. The left side of her face was swollen.

There was a bright square of light floating directly above her, and it took Lucy a moment to realize that it came from an iron-barred hatch in the ceiling. At the end of her cell there was a heavy wooden door, and across the lichen-covered floor there were strewn greening rushes. Lucy shivered, too weak and disoriented to crawl beneath the cot's blanket to escape the chill.

She was in a bad way. A really, really bad way. Her head spun with vertigo, the dizziness so deep it was impossible to move without gagging. _My head's broken_ , Lucy though, but her ribs and leg were broken, too. The pain in her leg was fierce, but it was numbed out by the burning in her lungs. Each time she exhaled, there was a wet gurgling sound that breezed past her lips, like a balloon that was slowly filling with water. Lucy lifted a sluggish hand to feel the stiff linen bandage wrapped around her head, before her fingers clumsily drifted downwards to discover that the rest of her injuries had been left untouched. The elves had bandaged her up enough to keep her functioning, but no more than that. Lucy remembered the look of fury on the dark elf's face as he'd cracked his white bow across her temple, and wondered _why_.

"They're perfect." Tommy had said. "They're supposed to be everything humans aren't." Only perfect people didn't beat others to a pulp when they happened to casually mention the name of _Sauron_.

Trying to breathe as shallowly as possible so as not to agitate her lungs – trying not to move at all, or think about dead, desperate Tommy – Lucy closed her eyes and willed herself to go back to sleep. Eventually though, someone came to see her.

It was a female elf – an _elleth_ , Tommy had called them – who was thin and very tall, dressed in black and silver. Lucy didn't realize she was there until she felt a cool hand on her forehead, pushing aside her hair. The elleth had a pale, ageless face, the skin on her hands soft and unblemished. Her eyes were so dark they looked black. Lucy stayed still under the dark elf's ministrations; her mouth slightly slack and eyelids at half mast as she listened to the constant _plunk, plunk, plunk_ of dripping water. As Lucy watched her, the elf used her slim hand to brush her hair further back, revealing her rounded ears. She ran a curious finger along the edge of them, tugging on an earlobe when Lucy didn't react.

Finally, the elleth adjusted the bandages around her head, pulling the covers up to her chin. Then she left.

Lucy supposed the half-hearted care was better than none. Mostly, she supposed she was too far gone to care. She needed to make sure she'd arrived in the Third Age, but she was tired and thinking hurt too much. As soon as she felt better, Lucy decided, she would ask for Gandalf. He was one of the few people from Tommy's books that she remembered with any sort of clarity, and she was sure he would give her some sort of instruction on what to do next, now that her best friend was dead. She was no good at making plans on her own.

_Don't think about it._ She told herself, when a sharp stab of pain lanced its way through her chest. _Don't think. Just sleep._

So Lucy drifted for a time, not really awake but still hearing and seeing. The blanket wasn't that warm, but she still managed to achieve a degree of peace with its presence. Eventually she came back to herself, cluing in to the sensation of smooth-skinned hands pressing against her forehead. Opening her eyes, Lucy discovered **two** elves standing over instead of one. It was the elleth from before and a dark haired _ellon_ ; another word that Tommy had made her remember.

The creatures were alike in many ways. They were both pale skinned with raw-boned features, their black hair worn long and intricately braided. The ellon had bright gray eyes similar to the archer on the mountain, but his face was narrower, his lips thinner. His forehead was furrowed into a frown.

Abruptly, the elleth leaned around him to push Lucy's unbound hair away from her face, pointing to it emphatically.

"Hên _._ " she declared. She looked upset, if a marble statue could look upset. The ellon made a _hmmm_ noise, feeling along Lucy's jaw and behind her ears with slender fingers.

"Ethir tol mîn pain cadw _._ " he said, his tone neutral but firm. Lucy just stared at him, barely registering the way he skimmed his hands along the glands on her throat. He seemed to be searching for something, his manner very much like a doctor's. "Calagor baur degant firen." he continued in a reproachful tone. The ellon had a very deep voice, his words spoken with a bit of a drawl. In the background, the muted roar of the underground ravine was a constant.

"Hên _._ " Black Eyes insisted. "Firen **winë**."

"Gwanw hên." the male shot back, raising one of his hands and snapping his fingers in front of Lucy's face. She barely followed the movement. The elf reached forward with his other hand to carefully cradle the side of her head, tilting it towards him.

"Mana neitha na hen?" he asked his companion, his frown deepening. Black Eyes bit her bottom lip, looking distressed. Over what, Lucy couldn't say.

"Im doú henio." she said in a tone of hesitant admittance. _"_ Firen doú pladamaer. Ennas rhoeg ened."

"Calagor?" the ellon queried, raising an eyebrow. He looked surprised, and Lucy wished she could understand what he was saying.

The elleth shrugged, and the two elves exchanged a few more words, each statement punctured by pointed fingers and furrowed brows as they eyed her. The elleth seemed slightly more sympathetic, but only barely, and even then it was because something about Lucy seemed to disquiet her.

_Maybe she sees the insides, too_ , Lucy decided. _Maybe she sees something that’s rotten_.

Eventually the ellon's right hand came to rest on her chest. Very carefully, he felt along the breaks in her ribs. Lucy sucked in a hiss of breath as he did so. It hurt to the touch, so much so that she nearly saw stars. Her skin beneath the creature's slim hands was soft and spongy, the skin purple and bruising. When she breathed out, Lucy could hear the fluid in her lungs. He could too, it seemed.

"Sin baur na penio." the ellon said darkly. He placed one hand against Lucy's side and another on the top of her chest to feel the way her ribs moved as she breathed. Lucy wheezed beneath the added weight.

"Û si." he continued in that deep, clinical manner of his. "Anaduilin tírad hên."

The female elf looked highly unimpressed, and her response – which Lucy didn't catch – was caustic. The ellon shrugged in return. "Im doú henio." he admitted blandly, taking his hands off Lucy's front to reach into a bag by his side. He pulled out a slender bottle. "Ethir ná ethir, pen uin anrand."

The ellon held out the bottle to the black-eyed elleth, waiting for her to take it. When she did, he proceeded to rattle off a series of instructions. Black Eyes listened well enough, although the frown that was marring her features got deeper. As he finished talking, the ellon turned to look at Lucy, eying her bare legs with a peculiar sort of concern.

"Abgovad, esgal hên am." he said, pointing to the mangled limbs with an errant finger. "Hên û no hell."

The elleth's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the ellon got up and left without another word. Quickly, the black-eyed elf uncorked the carafe and made Lucy drink the contents. It was difficult at first, and Lucy choked on most of it, but the mixture was sweet and had an immediate effect. Soon her chest didn't feel quite so bad, and her breathing was almost bearable. Within a few minutes she was nearly euphoric, hallucinating fields of flowers and cornucopias of stars.

Black Eyes made a concerned _tching_ noise when she began mumbling, dabbing away a bit of the clear liquid that had stained her cheek. _Stars_ , Lucy thought as she eyed the silver necklace dangling around the elleth's neck, and tried to reach for the jewellery. The elf sighed and gently put her hand back.

"Stars." Lucy repeated aloud. It hurt to talk, but she couldn't help it. "I want the stars."

The elleth shot her a brief, worried glance, but otherwise ignored her. A thick green paste that smelt like rosewater was applied to her wounds, and then the elf was helping her sit, her arm carefully going around her shoulders so as not to bump her ribs. Lucy moaned as the world spun, her head lolling against Black Eyes' chest.

"Am, hên," the elleth commanded. "Am."

Lucy hurt too much to answer, and the elf seemed too distracted to care. Without delay she half-dragged Lucy into the hallway, marching her down a corridor made of dark gray stone. The passage was lit by torches every ten feet or so, and beside those stood a guard, each of their faces hidden by intricately carved helms of silver. The air was just as heavy in the hallway as it was in the cell, and soon Lucy was wheezing hard. Before she'd died, Tommy had said nothing about the atmosphere being different in Middle-earth. Lucy almost resented the world for daring to be different from her best friend's expectations.

Finally they reached a large wooden door towards the end of the corridor. There was a silver-helmed guard standing watch on either side. Black Eyes shifted Lucy in her grasp, pulling her past them into the room. Inside the chamber was long and shaped like a bunker, it's ceiling curved in an arch. The room was large but was mostly empty, devoid of furniture save for a pair of wooden chairs and a table next to an iron brazier. Several elves were standing near it, and with them was the archer that had knocked Lucy out. The archer was talking to another elf; a smaller one, with his silver hair pulled into a knot that rested at the nape of his neck. The ellon was dressed in black, his countenance so somber he looked like he'd come straight from a funeral. In his hands he held one of Tommy's books. Lucy couldn't tell which one it was from a distance.

Somewhat gently, Black Eyes sat her on the nearest chair, but Lucy was so dizzy that she couldn't stay upright without assistance. By the brazier, the archer gestured animatedly in her direction. Through the ringing in her ears and the cotton-like sensation that clouded her senses, Lucy could make out words like _Sauron_ and _Morgoth_ , along with an odd name that almost sounded like _Angband_. If she imagined harder, she was sure the archer was also spitting out such flattering expletives as _spy, traitor_ and _whore_ for good measure. Silver Hair listened to the archer's complaints well enough, only interjecting twice. The second time he cut the other elf off, however, and the dark-haired ellon fell silent.

In the low light, Lucy noticed the glint of something reflective near the archer's throat that she had not seen before; a clasp holding his cloak in place, made of steel and shaped like an arrowhead. It looked like some sort of sigil. When the archer finished speaking, the silver-haired elf stepped towards Lucy and sat. Up close, it became apparent the ellon's features were different from the other elves: still delicate, but his nose was shallower, the bridge of it lower and less straight. His eyes were silver too, his features more fox-like. Casually, Silver Hair held up the book.

It was Tommy's copy of _The Silmarillion_ , splattered with blood and dented from the fall. The cover was plain, decorated only by a scrawling band of elvish script that Lucy couldn't read. The script was wrapped around the cover.

The ellon tapped a single, slender finger against the tome as he looked her straight in the eye.

"Quenta Silmarillion." he said, reading the elvish script aloud. His voice was as sombre as his countenance, mellow but lacking in warmth. Turning his head towards the book, Silver Hair tapped his finger twice more atop the embossed design, his long digits thumping dully against the paper. A moment later, he turned the book back around so it was facing him. Almost languidly, the elf began flipping through the contents, breaking the spine and forcing the book open so the pages turned rapidly from left to right. His eyes skimmed mindlessly over the English letters.

Lucy's head lolled. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake, and the medication Black Eyes had given her was already wearing off. Silver Hair looked up at the movement. The ellon's gaze was critical, but oddly blank. He pointed to one of the pages written in English, tapping it again benignly.

"Man thel pent?" he asked. Luck didn't have an answer for him. Silver Hair kept on staring, scrutinizing her with detached interest that verged on chronic boredom. Behind him the archer was pacing. The pale ellon lowered the book to his lap and gently closed the cover.

"Car le buio i Fëanorians?" Silver Hair queried. When Lucy still didn't answer, he tilted his head to examine her more closely, rigid and dainty as a bird. The ellon was not the most physically imposing elf in the room, but there was a disquieting lack of empathy about his gaze that made him twice as terrifying. Morbidly, Lucy wondered if he would kill her.

"Man lín eneth?" the elf continued, his words coming out on a drawl. As he asked the question, the archer stopped pacing, his fair cheeks still flushed. His nose was a different shape from Silver Hair's – straighter, and the bridge more narrow – and his eyelids were heavier. Normally Lucy would have chalked this up to family genetics, but Black Eyes and the doctor-elf had them as well. All three of them were bigger than the silver-haired elf sitting in front of her. It was almost as if they came from a different species entirely.

"Car le buio i Sauron?" asked Silver Hair. Lucy jolted awake at the name. She didn't know what the ellon was saying, but _Sauron_ was a familiar word.

_Lucy,_ someone whispered along the edge of her ear, and even through the haze of pain, she had to fight the urge to scratch at the sensation. She was only half-sure she was imagining it. The silver-haired ellon was still staring at her.

"Car le buio i Sauron?" he repeated. Lucy swallowed heavily, feeling even dizzier than before. She wanted to answer, **needed** to answer, but the air was too dense. She could barely concentrate on making sure one breath came after another, much less form sounds into words.

Silver Hair continued watching in silence, waiting for her to answer. When Lucy didn't, he stood. On silent feet the pale elf glided forward, stopping close enough that the hem of his short black cloak was brushing against the bare skin of her legs. A second later, he reached out and grabbed her. The hand that he threaded through her hair was fine boned and elegant, the fingers unnaturally long. Lucy could feel his short nails scraping softly against her scalp as he lifted her head, pulling it into an upright position so she was looking at him. Then Silver Hair turned towards the black-eyed elleth standing behind her. The two elves were the same height.

"Ûn thloew." he said. It was a statement.

"Firen **winë**." Black Eyes insisted. Her clipped tone strongly suggested that she was thoroughly unimpressed with his tactics. Silver Hair bit the inside of his cheek, _hmming_ briefly at the back of his throat as he turned his gaze to Lucy. Slowly he cocked his head, and as he did so Lucy decided that the ellon reminded her of a sparrow.

"Sauron iuitho hîn nó." he said simply, turning Lucy's head back and forth. Behind them, the archer had taken a step forward, his hands clenching repeatedly against his thighs.

"Hesto _–_ " he began.

"Calagor, dartha estë." Silver Hair ordered blandly, not looking up as he cut the other elf off. The flush returned to the archer's face full force, his jaw locking so tightly Lucy was sure she could hear his teeth grinding. Stiffly, the dark-haired archer turned and stormed out of the room in a swirl of blue fabric.

Once he was gone, Silver Hair stepped back and let go of Lucy's head. He wiped his hand on the front of his loose fitting tunic, as if the bodily contact had been slightly repulsive. For a moment, all Lucy could hear was the crackle of the brazier’s fire. Then the ellon began dolling out orders. His eyes were hooded as he tucked Tommy's book into a pocket on the right side of his tunic, his gaze returning to Lucy as he focused on her legs. The elf gestured to her bare skin with an errant hand.

"Esgal hên am. Hên û no hell." he said, his words directed towards the elf standing behind them. Even though she couldn't see her, Lucy could hear the terseness in Black Eye's tone as she responded.

"Im garo al hamma esgal in hên." she bit out. Silver Hair gave the other elf a bland look, and when the elleth held her ground he sighed, reaching up and unfastening his thick black cloak from around his neck. He tossed the garment onto Lucy's legs, covering them from sight.

"Hebin ha." he commanded, turning back to the brazier. Black Eyes bowed low, and beside her Lucy slumped forward, her mouth slack and eyelids drooping. She couldn't stay awake any longer.

Quickly the elleth crouched, using the cuff of her own sleeve to wipe away a trail of spittle that had dampened her lips. With the cloak thrown over her shoulders, Lucy was dragged once more into the depths of the dungeons. Black Eyes barely managed to steer her back to her cell before she fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing!
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Longer than the last one, with names/general words first and sentences second. As always, if you see errors (and there are tons of them), don't hesitate to correct me. Please note these are all very rough translations, and pretty much devoid of grammar. Most are just the general meanings, and sometimes I had to resort to a word or two in Quenya as there was no Sindarin equivalent. As such, feel free to ignore this.
> 
> Anaduilin – Name 
> 
> Calagor – Name
> 
> Ethir tol mîn pain cadw – Spies come in all forms 
> 
> Calagor baur degant firen – Calagor needed to kill it
> 
> Hên. Firen a winë – A child. It/the human is a young child 
> 
> Gwanw hên – A dying child
> 
> Mana neitha na hen – What is wrong with her 
> 
> Im doú henio. Firen doú pladamaer. Ennas rhoeg ened. – I don't know. It/the human doesn't feel right. There is something wrong inside
> 
> Sin baur na penio. Û si – This needs to be fixed. Not now
> 
> Anaduilin tírad hên – Anaduilin wants to see the child 
> 
> Ethir ná ethir, pen uin anrand – A spy is a spy, regardless of age 
> 
> Abgovad, esgal hên am. Hên û no hell – After the meeting, cover the child up. A child shouldn't be exposed/naked
> 
> Am, hên. Am – Up, child. Up
> 
> Man thel pent – What does it say 
> 
> Car le buio i Fëanorians – Do you serve the Fëanorians 
> 
> Mana lín eneth – What is your name
> 
> Car le buio i Sauron – Do you serve Sauron 
> 
> Ûn thloew – It's sick
> 
> Firen winë – It/the human is a young child 
> 
> Sauron iuitho hîn nó – Sauron's used children before
> 
> Hesto – Sir/Captain (Quenya)
> 
> Calagor, dartha estë – Calagor, wait outside
> 
> Esgal hên am. Hên û no hell – Cover the child. Children shouldn't be exposed 
> 
> Im garo al hamma esgal in hên – I have no clothes to cover the child
> 
> Hebin ha – Keep it


	3. The Perfect Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 4, 2016

Every day, it was the exact same questions

_Man thel pent?_

_Car le buio i Fëanorians?_

_Mana lín eneth?_

_Car le buio i Sauron?_

Always, it was Silver Hair who asked them. Sometimes he varied the order of the words. The ellon had a habit of – and seemed to enjoy – getting Lucy used to a routine, only to completely change it the minute she let her guard down, either through repetition or exhaustion. Lucy was too ill to walk, so when questioning her Silver Hair would always come to her cell. Sometimes, if the ellon was feeling particularly vindictive, he would visit her two or three times a day. Each visit would last several hours.

Always, Lucy would wonder why. _Why don’t they kill me? Why am I here?_ She was too tired to voice her questions, however, so she didn’t.

Silver Hair was a taciturn sort of individual. Solemn, and oddly ruthless in an understated sort of way. The elf would sidle into her cell and sit on a stool next to her cot, watching Lucy with bright eyes until she jolted awake and saw him sitting there, nearly giving her a heart attack in the process. He always sat with a lazy slouch – slumped forward just the slightest bit, his knees bent – but it was a false sort of nonchalance, and both of them knew it. It didn’t mean he was nice to her, either. The ellon was prone to fits of pettiness, like setting her cup of water just out of reach, then sitting there with a deadened expression as he watched her try to grab it. He reminded Lucy of a sparrow, diminutive in comparison to his larger brethren, but quick-witted and attentive. Sometimes when he was acting especially predatory, Lucy thought of him as a fine-boned falcon; his head cocked to the side and his silver eyes alert as he eyed her obsessively for any kind of movement.

Black Eyes came to see her most days, and once or twice Lucy was paid a visit from the doctor-elf. They had bandaged her up properly this time – binding the broken rib on her chest, stitching the gash across her head and re-splinting her leg – but her injuries were slow to heal, and made even slower by a persistent illness. The atmosphere really was too much for her, and that, combined with the chill in the dungeons, made Lucy develop incessant chills and a worrying, bronchial sort of cough. Constantly, she huddled beneath her threadbare blankets, but they weren’t warm enough, and the elves didn’t seem to understand that. 

Elves, Tommy had told her once, didn’t get sick. They also didn’t fall ill or die from age. Sometimes they killed themselves, and there was this thing called _fading_ , but they didn’t grasp the concept of temperature the same way that humans did. Mental trauma, however, was deadly. 

“It’s horrible.” Tommy had told her one day, when they were sifting through the contents of Lucy’s attic in search of an old, six-foot tall mirror that had belonged to her grandmother. “They waste away and die from grief. Their bodies and souls are too closely linked to survive when the other is damaged.” Back then Tommy had been sure they could reach Middle-earth through a reflective surface. The antique mirror had been their best bet.

“So you’re saying they commit suicide.” Lucy intoned, ripping open a cardboard box and sending dust flying everywhere. Tommy had sneezed, looking affronted.

“No!” she exclaimed as she wiped at her nose, then amended “well, sometimes, I guess. When they just can’t take it any more. There was this elf in the First Age, called Maedhros? He was a Noldo prince. He killed himself by jumping into a pit of fire.”

“They can’t deal with loss, then,” said Lucy, who had lost very little at all. “I get it.”  Tommy had been mildly distraught by her words. 

“It’s not like that at all!” she’d insisted as they’d swept away cobwebs and choked on dust. “It isn’t. You don’t understand.” Lucy **didn’t** understand loss, of course, except maybe the loss of affection. She knew the loss of warmth, though. Intimately, and with great consternation. It was a constant down in the dungeons.

There was a detached sort of carelessness about the way that the elves treated her: a kind of neglect that came less from purpose, and more from lack of experience. The blanket was one such example, the lack of food and water another. Lucy was always thirsty, but more than once she was left with nothing to drink. Whenever it happened, Black Eyes would eventually rush in with a bowl of water and a bit of bread, looking flustered but too proud to admit that she’d forgotten. Lucy was too sick to cultivate any sort of appetite, so the lack of food didn’t bother her much, but when she tried drinking, she ended up puking. It wasn’t that the water was bad, or that she swallowed too quickly. Like the air, it was simply too difficult to process.

Black Eyes had made a soothing sound of comfort and refilled her cup, but Lucy had simply hurled again. By the second day, she’d managed to keep most of it down, but even then she’d only been able to drink the liquid in pitiful sips. Still, there was nothing else to drink, so Lucy swallowed. The thought of dying from thirst was something that terrified her so deeply she could barely begin to fathom it.

Out of all the elves that came to visit her, Silver Hair was the least negligent of the bunch. Lucy soon learned that this was because he was a different sort of elf from most of the guards, and was relatively comfortable around humans. None of the elves liked her, of course, but the larger ones with the dark hair seemed absolutely clueless as to what to make of her presence. More than once Lucy caught an elf peering into her cell with blatant curiosity, and even Black Eyes seemed confused by her appearance. Inordinately, they seemed more concerned with that then with her health. Bare skin – or at least Lucy’s bare skin – was strictly taboo.

The most dramatic incident by far came when Black Eyes tried to bathe her.

Elves had heightened senses, Lucy knew. Tommy had told her this more than once, and she was quite certain that it extended to their noses. They didn’t wash her right away, as Lucy was in too much pain to be moved, but by the second day in, the scent that was clinging to her – a mixture of sweat and despair – seemed too much for them to take. That morning, Silver Hair stepped into the chamber only to visibly rear back, his nostrils widening and shallow nose scrunching up at the tip.

Quickly he stepped into the corridor and snapped his fingers in Lucy’s direction, angrily calling out for somebody named “Limbrethil” who appeared to be waiting just down the hall. Soon after, Black Eyes stormed into the cell, glaring furiously at Silver Hair before slamming the door in his face. The elleth – whose name was probably _Limbrethil_ , for all Lucy knew – sat her up, resting Lucy against the damp stone wall. She left the room briefly, before returning with a medium sized wooden bucket filled with water.

Lucy was drugged and definitely out of it, but when Black Eyes began stripping her of her clothes, she flinched. She would have protested against the violation of privacy if she were feeling better, but at the moment all Lucy was concerned with was the cold. Black Eyes had frigid hands, and the air was even cooler.

“It’s c-c-cold.” Lucy said, speaking through her chattering teeth. She was shaking furiously, her shivers verging on spasms. Black Eyes continued with her ministrations, her expression devoid of emotion, save for a slight touch of annoyance.

“Please.” Lucy insisted, curling in on herself as Black Eyes unbuttoned and removed her sweater. “It’s c-cold. P-put it back.” 

“Shh, hên." the elleth crooned, moving on to Lucy's shirt. "Lín gerin na." They’d moved aside parts of her clothing before to treat her wounds, but never all of it.

“I w-want Tommy." Lucy ground out, because Lucy **always** wanted Tommy, only now she wanted her best friend and only confidant with a fervour that was encompassing. "Take me to Tommy."

The elleth's expression morphed into annoyance. "No tîn, lissë." she said tersely.

“Take me to Tommy." Lucy repeated. The elf shot her a patronizing glance, full of disapproval. "Hên –" she warned.

"Take me to Tommy!" Lucy wailed. She must have sounded like she was on the verge of a tantrum, because the elf sighed and reached into the satchel tied at her waist. Deftly flipping the leather cover open, she pulled something out that was round and dark and looked like it was covered in sugar.

"Shh, hên _._ " she soothed, her voice an odd combination of exasperated detachment and maternal care. "Sí, garo miseán."

Quickly – before Lucy could understand what was going on – she gripped her chin between her fingers, popping the sugar ball into her mouth. It was eye-searingly sweet and tasted like chocolate. Lucy **hated** chocolate. She **hated** sweets. She turned her head and immediately spat it out.

"Ai, lín ná taitë faeg míw rhaug!" the elleth hissed in clear annoyance, reaching up to wipe Lucy's lips clean with the edge of her sleeve. The motion distinctly reminded her of a mother fastidiously cleaning a baby.

"I want to see Tommy," Lucy repeated miserably. The elleth ignored her, and seemed perfectly content to do so until she had stripped Lucy of all but her undergarments. Only then did she let out a gasp. Leaning forward she grabbed Lucy’s arm, extending it outwards and turning it over so she could see the soft underbelly of it. There was a single long line splitting the center of it from inner elbow to wrist, thick and white and ridged with scar tissue. The mark was precise and surgical, and it wasn’t the only scar Lucy had. She had other lines. Deeper marks. There wasn’t a horrible story behind the scars. No tales of hospital room visits or rampant thoughts of suicide. Lucy simply possessed a knack for destruction, a morbid curiosity, and very steady hands. She loved taking things apart. The only thing she could remember with any sort of clarity about the incident was that she’d wanted to see her insides, the same way you would pry open a machine to oil it.

_I want to see them, too._ someone crooned. Lucy was feeling so sick that she was sure she was imagining the voice, but the words itched against her ear. “I’m c-cold,” she mumbled. Black Eyes still wasn’t listening to her.

Slowly the elleth kneeled before her, and then with hyper-cautious movements she began to scrub her limbs clean. Lucy sat there docilely, although it was more from lethargy than anything else. The entire time Black Eyes watched her with a sad, limpid sort of gaze. Every time she found a new scar, she made a soft _tching_ noise with her tongue, and soon the elleth’s eyes began to water. The elf reached up and rubbed at them, sniffling audibly. 

"Pen nahta lín?" Black Eyes asked through her sniffling, holding out Lucy's arm and tapping the scar to show her what she was talking about. The elf looked like she was on the verge of sobbing, and Lucy didn’t understand why. When she stared at her blankly, shivering against the chill, the elleth tried again. Her words were spoken slowly, as if that would somehow make her easier to understand. It didn’t. 

"Sauron nahta lín?" she asked. Lucy perked up at the word _Sauron_ , sitting straighter on her cot. When she did the elf went ashen, swallowing convulsively as if she were going to be ill. Lucy always recognized the word Sauron, just like she recognized that Gandalf was _good_ and winter was _cold_.

_Istari are **not** good_ , someone hissed, but Lucy ignored them. She decided all she was hearing was the constant roar of the ravine. 

“T-Tommy was looking for Sauron,” she told the elf in a rush, her teeth still chattering. “That’s why we came here, to the mountain. T-Tommy – Tommy w-was a prophet. She w-was g-going to stop him, but Tommy fell.” Lucy paused as she felt her stomach twist uncomfortably, then said in a hush. “Y-you can see her insides on the outsides, now. They w-were p-pink.”

Black Eyes simply swallowed hard and toweled Lucy off, her expression one of despair.

After the elleth fixed her bandages, she pulled a white nightgown over her head. It fell to the floor and was so long in the sleeves it covered her hands, and was constantly slipping down over one shoulder. Black Eyes tried to make Lucy swallow another medical concoction, but she was having none of it, as she didn’t trust anything the elves gave her to drink. The elleth ended up pinning her down and pinching her nose, making her swallow the entire contents despite her protests. Afterwards, Lucy fell into a dreamless slumber.

When she returned to consciousness, Black Eyes and Silver Hair were in her cell. Her left sleeve was pulled all the way back and Black Eyes was gripping her wrist, lifting her arm to show the pale-haired ellon the scars. He was frowning deeply.

Silver Hair listened to Black Eyes rant and rave for several minutes, and when she finished speaking he bit the inside of his cheek, his jaw clenching as he folded his arms across his chest and looked at some random spot on the wall. A moment later, he left without a word. Lucy found herself wondering why he’d bothered to come in the first place. He didn’t seem to care if she lived or died, and something like her scars shouldn’t have bothered him.

The time in the days that followed was strange. The elves treated Lucy with more delicacy, yet continued their accidental negligence. Silver Hair visited frequently, asking questions and bringing Tommy’s books, but even though her injuries were healing, Lucy was getting sicker. Most of the time she barely managed to stay conscious long enough to make it through one of the ellon’s visits.

Finally, they took her to see an elf lord.

The first time Lucy met the elf lord was just over a week after she’d landed in the mountains, when she was still immobile because of the breaks in her leg and her bronchial cough had gotten worse. Black Eyes woke her early that morning, making _shushing_ noises as Lucy tried to bat her hands off and curl beneath her too-thin blanket for warmth. She wanted to sleep, as it was the only time she didn’t feel cold. Lucy was always cold these days, and when she wasn’t daydreaming about Tommy, she was fantasizing about fireplaces and feather beds and blankets that went on forever. She wanted to be wrapped in warmth.

“No,” she mumbled. “Leave me alone.” The elleth wouldn’t do so. Lucy coughed fitfully, her chest rattling as Black Eyes slid a hand beneath her back and pulled her upright. The elleth made a _cooing_ sound, whispering encouragements as Lucy groaned. Her head lolled backwards, her long brown hair dragging across the pillow. She had another migraine that was making the world spin, and it felt as if her skull was being split apart. 

"Am hên," Black Eyes commanded gently. "Wé baur hûr lín. Ennas ná mo sí tíra lín."

Lucy complied in the way that she normally did, by being utterly unresponsive and making no move whatsoever to help with anything. If Black Eyes wanted her to move, she could **drag** her there, for all Lucy cared.

The elleth _tched_ at her stubbornness, but still leaned her against the wall and set about washing her face. Carefully she scrubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes with a soft cloth, before pulling her overlarge shift up over her shoulder to hide the skin. When the shift fell down again, as it was often wont, she sighed loudly and rearranged Lucy’s hair to cover it, brushing out the worst of the tangles but letting the rest of the heavy locks fall down her front. Lucy stayed quiet throughout, squinting hard through swollen eyelids as she tried to focus.

"Lín bain, hên." the elleth said when she caught Lucy watching her, her voice taking on a musing tone and eyes intent.

"Are you taking me to see Tommy?" Lucy asked groggily. She hadn't seen the body since the fall, but she wanted to. **Needed** to, more than anything else. The thought of abandoning something so precious was utterly unbearable.

When Black Eyes didn’t respond, Lucy thought Silver Hair was coming to see her again. Instead the elleth slipped her arm around Lucy’s back, lifting her up. Lucy hissed in pain. It was the first time she’d walked in days, and her legs were weak from malnutrition and lack of exercise. Her ribs weren’t much better. Everything ached.

The elleth made an encouraging sound, letting Lucy grip her free hand in a painfully tight manner as she steered her out the door. In the hallway there was the clatter of chain mail and the flicker of torchlight as guards moved about. Black Eyes walked Lucy down the corridor, past the silver-clad gaolers and into the room that reminding Lucy of a bunker; the one that she had been questioned in before.

Inside the elleth guided Lucy to a singular chair, sitting her down and readjusting the shift along her left shoulder when it fell aside with the movement. By the brazier stood Silver Hair, flipping through one of Tommy’s books. There were several other elves standing near him that Lucy hadn’t seen before, and all of them were dressed in black. Her caretaker went over to the fire, exchanging some quiet words with Silver Hair who nodded once, before grabbing a glass of water resting on the nearby table. When Black Eyes returned she handed it to Lucy, who drank greedily, her hands shaking. The only thing that was worse than the constant chill was her unassailable thirst.

The minute she grabbed hold of the cup, Black Eyes turned and left.

This wouldn’t have bothered Lucy much – the elleth often left her alone for great stretches of time – but not long afterwards the door swung open and another elf entered. He was taller than any ellon Lucy had seen so far, dressed entirely in black velvet and softened leather. She barely had time to register that he was there before the elf was swiping the cup from her hands, pulling up another chair and sitting down directly across from her.

Lucy let out a cry. She was so thirsty it was enough to bring her to tears.

In front of her the ellon slouched low in his chair, gripping her cup in a casual manner. He was ghostly pale, his pallor seeming to have come from a lifetime of hiding from the sun. The ellon’s gaze was soft but blank, his dark hair shimmering beneath the low light. The elf had the biggest black eyes Lucy had ever seen, and the hands that gripped her cup were lovely and pale, like dead things crafted from marble.

Instantly, Lucy didn’t trust him.

The elf rocked his chair back on its heels, letting it fall forward with a _clack_. He was beautiful in the same way that gemstones were beautiful, but he looked like a lord and carried himself like a lord – full of pretension – and suddenly Lucy missed Tommy and her uncomplicated ways with wild abandon. She hated the elves and she hated the dungeon. She hated Black Eyes and Silver Hair, and the archer too, for bringing her there. Lucy wanted to see Tommy’s body; to grieve over it in the only way she knew how, before hurtling herself from some nearby cliff face to finish what her best friend had started. She was alone. She was abandoned, and the thought was unbearable. 

Abruptly, the elf lord leaned forward, holding out the cup. His expression was without malice, but still blank.

"Sogant?" he asked in a drawling sort of way. He had a soft, smooth voice, and sounded surprisingly young. The ellon kept his hand extended, holding the stolen cup out for her inspection. Lucy was thirsty, but didn’t take it. She’d learned through Silver Hair that elves were tricky and extremely vindictive, prone to sudden fits of pettiness. The ellon waited patiently for her to receive his offering, but when all Lucy did was sit there and stare at him, wide-eyed with apprehension, he sighed and grabbed the side of his chair, scooting it forward noisily. The action made him seem almost human for a moment, as it really was quite clumsy, but then that moment passed. 

The ellon held out the cup again, his eyes dead and expression bored. Their knees were touching. 

“Sogant.” he said again in his drawling tone. His voice should have been warm because of the softness, but it wasn’t. Lucy was hyper-aware of the way their shins brushed together. As her nightgown fell down her shoulder, the elf lord began to eye her oddly. Self-consciously Lucy reached up, tugging the tunic into place over her bare skin. Her free hand clenched nervously in her lap. 

The elf lord eyed her bare skin with an expression that bordered on hunger. Languidly, his gaze followed the line of her neck to her hands. Still, he said nothing.

There was an awkward moment of silence between them: awkward on Lucy’s part, because she was cold and hungry and her head hurt something awful. Her mouth was parched, and she was so dizzy she felt like she was going to collapse. She knew she had to do something – to ask about Tommy, to inquire about Gandalf – but she was exhausted. _Tired,_ she though. _I’m so tired._ She really was. 

Lucy didn’t realize she was listing forward until she felt the ellon’s hand on her shoulder, cold as marble and just a pale, his other hand carefully holding the cup to her lips. 

“Sogant.” he commanded, watching her mouth with too much interest. This time, Lucy obeyed. 

The cup was heavy in her hands, her exhaustion and lack of nourishment making her tremors visible. Lucy tried to drink, but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t do it without spilling water everywhere. The ellon leaned forward, using his other hand to cover her fingers with his as he helped her steady the glass. This close he looked like a statue made of flesh: just a bit too real to be carved from stone, but far too lovely to be something living. The elf lord kept his hands on hers until she finished drinking, and when Lucy lowered her arm, he took the cup away, leaning sideways to place it on the ground with a _clack_. As he did so, his hair fell to the side in a curtain of ink, revealing a delicately pointed ear. When he righted himself, he reached forward to grasp her face, gently feeling the swelling along her jaw as he turned her head to either side to inspect her. Lucy squirmed and whimpered. She didn’t want him touching her. Everywhere hurt.

"Man andrann ná iell?" the elf lord asked Silver Hair. The pale ellon stepped forward, clasping his slim hands together and his head held high as he reported what seemed to be a series of facts.

"Wé caro ú ista, hír nín." he said. He shot a brief glance at Lucy, then a knowing one at the elf lord with his hands on her face. "Hen **ná** hên, hír nín."

The elf lord _hmmed_ and didn’t look up, his eyelids growing heavy as he cupped Lucy’s left cheek with a chilly hand. He used the other to sweep her long brown hair behind her ear. When he tucked the locks aside, his fingers hovered just above the shell of it, his eyes studying the rounded edge with interest.

"Firen." the elf lord said. There was a note of surprise to his voice. Silver Hair nodded.

"Man nostalë o firen?" the elf lord asked next, and his gaze grew less blank. His silver-haired companion bit the inside of his cheek.

"Wé caro ú ista, hír nín." he replied with hesitance. The elf lord looked at Lucy directly, offering her a sly sort of smile that wasn’t meant to comfort. His long fingers traced a languid path across her cheeks. There was something about his touch that made Lucy want to shiver, and she did. 

"Sauron aníra ti dail." the ellon said in his soft sort of drawl. The answer Silver Hair gave was waspish, and the most visible sign of annoyance that Lucy had heard from him yet.

"Sauron **ui** aníra ti dail, hír nín."

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Silver Hair looked up before gesturing to one of his underlings to open it. The tall guard leaned forward in a clatter of chain mail, grasping the handle as the wooden door swung wide of creaking hinges. Another ellon stood just outside the chamber.

There was nothing special about this new elf, as he was tall and dark haired like all the others. Silver Hair frowned at the intrusion, and the stranger began speaking with a demure tone and a polite bow, his slim hand placed palm down over his chest. The elf lord ignored him, continuing to card away Lucy’s hair to examine her face. Lucy felt sick to her stomach.

"Hír Maeglin." said the ellon at the door. "Ennas ná mo sí tíra lín o Nost Duilin."

The elf lord finally blinked and looked towards the door, before turning around and standing. As he did so, Lucy started violently at the word _Maeglin,_ half-forgotten memories rushing forward to fill the holes inside her head. She knew him. She knew who the elf lord was. She’d heard his name before.

“I hate him.” Tommy had said one night as they’d huddled beneath the covers in Lucy’s attic, rocking herself back and forth to calm her resurgent hysteria. It had been a bad day at school, and reading another chapter of _The Silmarillion_ had only seemed to heighten the effect. Although Lucy didn’t know all the details at the time, she’d understood that the general gist of Tommy’s despair was brought on by a character called _Maeglin_.

“I hate him.” Tommy declared, her reaction so out-of-proportion that Lucy had actually been alarmed. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I wish he were dead!” Lucy had tried to comfort her, but in the end it had been to no avail.

“What do you mean you hate him?” she’d asked, trying to sound gentle. She’d reached out with a hesitant hand to put it to Tommy’s shoulder, but Tommy had shaken her off. “He’s just a character in your books. Besides, I thought you liked elves.” Seeing her best friend so upset made **her** upset, but there’d been no Annette to maim for this. Nothing tangible she could sink her claws into. 

“He’s evil.” the other girl spat. “What he did to Gondolin was awful. I hate him!”

Lucy couldn’t remember what the elf lord had done to make Tommy loathe him beyond vague impressions of shifty behavior and an unhealthy obsession towards his cousin _Idril_. She knew that Tommy despised him, though, and for Lucy – who was already unhinged and upset to begin with – this was an excellent reason to distrust him. The hungry eyes and sense of _unease_ that she got around him finally made sense. There was a nagging sensation at the base of her skull, a worrisome, intangible reminder that she was forgetting something vitally important, but Lucy ignored it.

Without thinking her next action through, she reached up, tugging on the hem of Maeglin’s tunic. The elf lord turned to look at her, his hand still resting on the side of her head. When he saw her staring up at him, he cocked his own head, watching her with big black eyes as he languidly ran the tips of his fingers through her hair. The gesture was cold, and very patronizing, and Lucy could tell by the way that he gazed at her that he considered her a passing curiosity, at best.

“Maeglin?” she said, just to be sure. When he responded to his name, his fingers stilling against her head, Lucy knew that she had the right person. She tugged on his tunic a second time, giving him the biggest doe eyes she could manage as she tried to convince him without words to bend down to her level.

A small smile crossed the elf lord’s lips. The ellon followed her command, humoring her like he would a small child. He sunk down to one knee, gently clasping her free hand in his, but as he did so Lucy grabbed the front of his tunic, pulling him forward without delay. The elf lord’s eyes widened in surprise at her boldness, but as soon as they did Lucy was placing her lips against his ear, whispering the words she so dearly wished to say. They were spoken without thought and maximized to hurt.

“I heard you fuck your cousin Idril.”

He did **not** like it. The elf lord went stiff beneath her hands, making a strangled sound deep in his throat. Immediately he was pushing her back so fast that Lucy was falling to the floor.

She didn’t know why he reacted so violently; maybe elves were hypersensitive, or perhaps they didn’t like people touching their ears. Either way, the motion started her coughing again – great, hacking coughs that made her spasm and curl in on herself in pain – but Lucy didn’t care. His discomfort had been worth it. In front of her, the pretty elf lord with the dead skin and even deader eyes was staring down at her as if she were hell spawn incarnate, a pink flush staining his cheeks as he rubbed frantically at his ear where her lips had touched. Over by the brazier Silver Hair had stepped forward, his right arm raised in mid-gesture as his eyes widened in what could have passed for surprise.

"Ci mae, hír nín _–_ " he began, but the elf lord cut him off, his shout only a decibel or two lower than a scream.

"Mab hen e od tíranya!" he yelled, rubbing fastidiously at his cheek. Immediately Silver Hair was springing into action, hoisting Lucy off the ground and dragging her back to her room as the elf lord paced across the room like an animal.

It wasn’t until she was locked in her cell that Lucy finally remembered that vitally important thing that she’d been missing. That nagging sensation that persisted at the base of her skull.

It was imperative, Tommy had said, that they arrived in the Third Age. “The best time for us to land is a week before Gandalf arrives at Bag End, when he visits Bilbo” were her best friend’s exact words. “I want to arrive later, but by that time it’s too late to stop anything. Too many people die.” Only that night in Lucy’s attic, Tommy had later revealed through her tears that Maeglin had died in the _First Age_. Killed, during the sack of a city called Gondolin. 

"Oh." Lucy said in slow-dawning horror, sluggishly drawing her hands up to either side of her head and clenching them in her hair. It was hard to breathe. She was choking on history. "Oh no." It wasn’t possible. But then, she hadn’t thought Middle-earth was real either.

After the incident with Maeglin, Lucy didn't leave her cell for a month. She didn't see the sunlight for even longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's where things start diverging from the usual narrative. For those of you who’ve read Tolkien's extended works, you'll know what I'm talking about. Hopefully it doesn't get too convoluted.
> 
> A big thanks to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing!
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> As before, general names and words first, sentences second. The standard bad-Sindarin-grammar and general-meanings warning apply.
> 
> Idril – Name
> 
> Limbrethil – Name
> 
> Maeglin – Name
> 
> Man thel pent – What does it say
> 
> Car le buio i Fëanorians – Do you serve the Fëanorians
> 
> Mana lín eneth – What is your name
> 
> Car le buio i Sauron – Do you serve Sauron
> 
> Shh, hên – Shh, child
> 
> Lín gerin na – You have to
> 
> No tîn, lissë – Be quiet, sweetling/sweetness (Quenya)
> 
> Sí, garo miseán – Here, have a candy
> 
> Ai, lín ná taitë faeg míw rhaug – Oh, you are such a rude little creature
> 
> Pen nahta lín – Someone hurt you
> 
> Sauron nahta lín – Did Sauron hurt you
> 
> Am hên – Up child
> 
> Wé baur hûr lín. Ennas ná mo sí tíra lín – We must ready you. There's someone here to see you
> 
> Línbain, hên – You are pretty, child
> 
> Sogant – Drink
> 
> Man andrann ná iell – What age is the girl
> 
> Wé caro ú ista, hír nín – We do not know, my lord
> 
> Hen ná hên, hír nín – She is a child, my lord
> 
> Firen – Human
> 
> Man nostalë o firen – What kind of human
> 
> Sauron aníra ti dail – Sauron likes them pretty
> 
> Sauron ui aníra ti dail, hír nín – Sauron always likes pretty things, my lord
> 
> Hír Maeglin – Lord Maeglin
> 
> Ennas ná mo sí tíra lín o Nost Duilin – There's someone here to see you from House Duilin
> 
> Ci mae, hír nín – Are you alright, my lord
> 
> Mab hen e od tíranya – Take her out of my sight


	4. A Stranger Cometh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 11, 2016

Lucy liked hobbit holes, oddly enough.

She didn’t have much in common with their owners besides her height, but her fondness for them had started with Tommy, who – when they were younger – had read _The Hobbit_ to Lucy aloud. Tommy had told her tales of Bilbo and Bag End, of bright green fields thick with daisies and tiny farms amongst quaint, pastoral-type towns. Lucy had zoned out for most of it, because she had a short attention span for long-winded stories, but she’d listened with rapt attention to the parts concerning hobbits themselves. She admired the simplicity of them, and by extension their homes.

Unfortunately for her, she also liked tall towers.

Massive, spiraling towers that pierced the sky like darkened javelins. Towers that stood watch over blackened flood plains that were manned by fiery, disembodied eyes. Lucy liked places like Barad-dûr for the same reason that she liked The Shire: they were both uncomplicated and entirely functional, with their insides on their outsides and their owners unconcerned with pretense. Tommy had told her more than once that she was crazy for associating Mordorian towers with hobbit holes, but everyone already knew that Lucy was short a few screws, so this didn’t bother either of the girls that much. Tommy also had a bias all her own, and one that they both acknowledged. In the end, everything had evened out.

Rivendell was Tommy’s favourite place, and after that Thranduil’s Court. The reason for this was simple, really: Tommy may have trusted humans more, but it was the elves she loved most of all. There were cities in the First Age that she admired too, but it was a love of a different sort. The First Age, Tommy had said, was nothing but one long, unmitigated tragedy where elves died in the thousands, cities were razed, and whole hosts of humans were utterly wiped out. The entire region of Beleriand – just northwest of where Tommy’s books took place – had been drowned, sunken under the sea like Atlantis.

“That’s why I don’t like the First Age as much.” Tommy had said sadly. “The cities are beautiful, but everything dies.”

Lucy hadn’t seen the difference, because to her they’d just been part of _The_ _Books_. She wasn’t going to get hung up over something that merely existed as a collection of words.

“You know it’s fake, right?” she’d said one day, slightly churlish and definitely pouting. Tommy had been distracted for most of the afternoon, and Lucy had been feeling alone and very much ignored.

Normally Tommy would have gotten mad over such a proclamation, because she was as fiercely protective over the elves as Lucy was of Tommy. Only that day, her best friend had smiled, her eyes distant and soft. She’d been in love even then, and Lucy had known with whom.

“He’s not like that.” Tommy had argued without malice. “He’s wonderful. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

And Lucy had felt rage. Blind, encompassing rage that made her want to scream in fury and rip Tommy’s precious books from her short, stubby little hands. Her best friend was in love with a sun god with hair like gold, but her love was a hopeless sort of thing, as it hadn’t been real in the first place. There was no way she could compete against something like that. So Lucy went back to her thoughts of hobbit holes and dark stone towers, to delusions of rot and veneers that were lacking. In an effort to bite back her rage, she’d comforted herself with the notion that Tommy’s Middle-earth wasn’t real, and later, she’d promised herself that if she ever **did** meet him, she would throw her best friend’s paramour off the tallest tower. That would teach him, she decided. Tommy had been Lucy’s **first**.

The dungeon felt real, though. The way that Silver Hair had gripped her arm as he tossed her back into her cell felt real, too. The history she was choking on was especially tangible, so much so that Lucy found herself clawing at her throat as she fought against the sensation of drowning. It was a delayed reaction to her current situation, she decided; the jump-starting of dead emotions that were now being brought back to life.

The Third Age, Tommy had said. The Third Age was important, but this was the First.

Several minutes later, when the full enormity of where she was and what _time_ she was in actually computed, Lucy screamed. She screamed until her throat was raw, tearing at her hair and throwing herself against the door repeatedly until Black Eyes and several of the guards returned to calm her.

In between the screams and the sobs and the desperate pleas to go home, Black Eyes whispered frantic reassurances, none of which Lucy understood.

"Please!" she sobbed on the bed, writhing beneath the guards' hands and kicking frantically. "Please, let me see Tommy! Let me see Tommy, I have to go back –"

"Im aiféa." Black Eyes said through a despairing grimace, her hands shaking as she searched for something in her satchel. "Im aiféa, Im aiféa, Im aiféa." Like before, the elleth removed a tiny bottle and pinched Lucy's nose to force another sleeping draught down her throat. It took effect immediately.

After that there was nothing. Blissful silence perhaps, mingled with indefinable blackness.

* * *

With the exception of her initial breakdown, Lucy remained disturbingly calm in the days and weeks to follow. She spent most of her time trying to sleep away the persistent cold, and when she wasn’t sleeping she was lying on her side staring blankly at the wall, humming softly. The sound of her own voice calmed her, as it was familiar.

There was a weird kind of dissonance in her head now, one that she heard whenever the elves were speaking; a strange sort of double echo that tickled at the back of her brain. Lucy could almost guess what the elves were saying by the tone of their voice, but this half-knowing was worse than not knowing at all, as it made her strain her ears searching for recognizable sounds. As a result, her migraines returned full force, and the pain they induced was crippling.

Lucy didn’t see Maeglin again, but this in itself was not surprising. He didn’t like her and she didn’t like him, and collectively they meant nothing to each other beyond a passing threat and a vague annoyance. He seemed like the type to kill his enemies, however, and when Lucy **didn’t** wake up to feel a dagger being drawn across her throat, she became confused. Between her bouts of catatonia and rising despair, she surmised the elves didn’t kill her because they wanted to question her, but no matter which way she tried to wrap her head around it, she didn’t see how their plan would work. Lucy didn’t know their language and they didn’t know hers, and even if she had arrived in the Third Age, there was a cultural divide between her and her captors that was so massive it was easily discernible. Lucy wouldn’t have called it _medieval_ , per say, but it was definitely along those lines. The elves were bigger and stronger. More intense, and angry. Some were downright trigger happy, and when you combined that with their physical presence – the shortest elf Lucy had seen was at **least** six foot – it made them incredibly dangerous. Even from the confines of her cell, sick as she was, Lucy could tell that everyone was on edge. Something was wrong, and it wouldn’t take much to set them off like a keg of gunpowder. The elves she was seeing now were nothing like the ones that Tommy had described in her books.

_Gandalf,_ Lucy thought miserably. _I have to talk to Gandalf._ It was Tommy’s idea, not hers, but she had no idea what to do on her own, and no way to ask for him, either.

Silver Hair visited her with ever-punctual frequency, and soon Lucy began to register little ticks in his movement: nervous tells and twitches that he fell prey to whenever he got too comfortable. The ellon had a habit of biting the inside of his left cheek whenever he was upset, and when he happened to be sitting down he would drag his right heel across the ground ever so slightly, leaning forward on his elbows and tilting his head up. The sombre elf was smaller than Maeglin had been, and definitely more delicate looking, but Lucy got the impression that he was infinitely older. Every day, he would ask her the same questions, holding up each of Tommy’s battered books while he tapped his slim fingers against the glossy trade-back covers.

"Man thel pent?"

"Car le buio i Fëanorians?"

"Mana lín eneth?"

"Car le buio i Sauron?"

Eventually, it became clear that questioning her from across the room wasn’t doing any good. Lucy was growing more lethargic, and often she was barely able to stay conscious long enough to see the elf leave at the end of each session. Sometime in the second week – or maybe it was even the third – Silver Hair came into her cell and sat especially close to Lucy’s cot, reaching into his satchel and pulling out one of Tommy’s books. He placed it firmly in Lucy’s hands. It was _The Silmarillion_ , and instantly Lucy felt a swell of regret as she gazed at the cover. Tommy. Tommy was dead, and she was alone. Lucy wished she hadn’t jumped. She was miserable.

“Tengwane.” Silver Hair said, placing one of his hands over hers to keep her steady as he opened the book. He tapped a random page with his forefinger. For someone as old as he was, he had remarkable soft hands. Lucy’s head lolled against the pillow as she stared blankly at the book, but she could vaguely guess what the elf wanted. Slowly, she began to read the page he had pointed to. Her voice was flat and monotonous, broken only by fits of coughing made wet and hoarse by the chill.

It made no sense, the part she was reading. Lucy supposed this was because _The Silmarillion_ was about as familiar to her as the elf doing the interrogation. The chapter talked about the “Three Kindreds of the Eldar” and their golden years in Valinor, followed by the escape of a Vala named Melkor. After that, there was a long, boring paragraph about his absolute loathing for the elves of Middle-earth. Silver Hair tensed at the mention of “Melkor,” clenching his jaw as he bit at the inside of his cheek. When Lucy got to the part about the Noldor swearing vengeance against “Morgoth,” Silver Hair sat up completely, yanking the book from her hands. Lucy let him do so without complaint. She was too tired to fight him.

Silver Hair turned the book around so it was facing him, his eyes scanning frantically over the English letters. It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t understand. Lucy watched as the ellon stared at the page, and when he finally seemed to come to the conclusion that deciphering the words was hopeless, he cursed colorfully under his breath. Then he stood, swiftly leaving the cell in a swirl of black and slamming the door, the book tucked under his left arm. The pale elf did not return, and the silence that ensued was unbearable.

Every now and then, someone – something – would start whispering in her ear. Lucy tried to ignore the sensation, but it didn’t work, and soon the whispering got worse.

_How do you know about Valinor?_ The voice would ask, words slithering along her spine and making her shudder. _What do you know about the trees?_

The guards at Lucy’s door were doubled, as if their presence alone would prevent her escape. The notion was laughable, of course. Lucy was still injured, and she was getting sicker. The constant chill and thick air made the fluid build-up in her lungs even worse. That, combined with her decreased appetite and her inability to stomach what food they gave her was slowly turning her into a wraith. Lucy had always been petite, with her size and delicate bone structure giving her a misleading air of innocence that made certain types of people prone to underestimating her. Now, her inability to stomach even the most basic of foods was taking its toll. Breathing was torturous, and everywhere her joints ached. Often, she would wake up from dozing most of the day to find Black Eyes standing over her, petting her head and offering her a plate of dry, tasteless crackers with a horribly sympathetic look on her face.

"Medi, hên." she would beg incessantly, shoving the crackers forward like a misplaced peace offering. "Lá medi."

Lucy would rarely eat, and when she hadn’t touched any of the wafers for three days in a row, the elf resorted to spoon-feeding her liquids. First it was soup, and when that upset her stomach, the elleth switched to something that looked like gruel. Lucy was able to eat it without vomiting, but by that time she was too weak to sit up. In what appeared to be a desperate last ditch effort, Black Eyes gave her something that looked like baby biscuits, small enough to fit in Lucy’s palm and soft enough that she could chew on them without difficulty. The fact that she was able to stomach them made Black Eyes inordinately pleased.

So Lucy slept, and sometimes she ate, and when she was awake she would hum beneath her breath until she no longer had the energy to do so. Every two days Black Eyes would bathe her, and whenever her nightgown became too soiled from sleeping, the elleth would exchange the garment for another shift that was just as shapeless and over-sized as the last. The only illumination Lucy received came from the stone hole in the ceiling, where the daylight tracked from left to right as the sun rose and fell in steady intervals. A breeze would sometimes wind its way through the opening, and it was through this that Lucy discovered that the corridor above her was connected to an open courtyard, which was what brought in the chill.

Lucy hated the cold, and was always freezing, but it was the nightmares that affected her the worst. When she closed her eyes, she could see Tommy’s brains splattered against the stone steppes like so much red paint, her best friend’s dull eyes staring upwards. Always, she would lie still after it happened, and as the weeks dragged on Lucy began to marinate in a concoction of despair. She didn’t want the dreams. She didn’t want **any** of this.

The weight of her memories was suffocating.

* * *

Nearly a month went by before they brought the woman to her cell. By that time, Lucy was so ill she was sleeping for days in a row, utterly listless and pale as death, her small form shrunken and unresponsive on the cot. Black Eyes had continued to be worried over her deteriorating state and her inability to fix it. More than once, she had brought the doctor-elf along to check on her without any discernible progress.

On the day of the stranger’s arrival, there was the squeaking of hinges as her door was opened yet again. Lucy was so used to having visitors flit in and out of her cell that she didn’t bother to turn to see whom it was that entered. Soft footsteps padded across the floor, mingling with the loud rustle of skirts as they were dragged over the rush-strewn ground. It didn’t sound like Black Eyes, who wore clothes of a lighter sort, but Lucy decided in her illness-induced stupor that the elleth had simply changed her dress for something warmer.

Lying on the cot as she was, with her left hand draped over the edge and facing outwards, she was able to watch the swirl of dark purple fabric as it came into view. Still, Lucy didn’t look up, closing her eyes after her initial inspection and wishing that sleep would take her. If she pretended the person wasn’t there, then maybe they would leave.

“You are the child?” someone asked in heavily accented English. Lucy’s eyes snapped open. The sound of her own tongue was so unfamiliar that at first she didn’t recognize it, and it had little to do with the way the woman rolled her _r’s_ or slurred her way through her words. It was because Lucy had gotten used to the silence, and when she didn’t hear the silence she heard the elves, their lyrical tongue translating to gibberish against her ears. The fact that the woman was speaking a language she understood finally sunk in, and Lucy tilted her face away from the pillow, looking apprehensively towards the owner’s voice.

There was an unfamiliar woman standing by her cot, her eye wide and face expressive. She was an ordinary looking individual, with olive toned skin and dark brown hair partially hidden beneath an ornately woven navy veil. Over her shoulders was thrown a large fox fur cape, and beneath that she was dressed all in purple. She wasn’t young, but neither was she old. If Lucy had to place her age, she would have said that the woman was between thirty and thirty-five. Forty, at the most.

Beside her stood Black Eyes, wringing her hands nervously. Standing behind them in the doorway was Silver Hair, a slight frown marring his features.

“Ai, you are so thin.” the woman exclaimed, her voice full of concern. She reached down and placed her hand against Lucy’s long hair, brushing it aside. Lucy coughed at the slight contact, her hacking strong enough that it caused her to curl inwards to try and contain the spasms. “They told me you were ill,” the woman confessed gravely. “But I did not think it was so much. Faster, they said to come, faster, faster! But it is hard to go fast these days. Too many orcs.” She gave Lucy a tremulous smile, almost apologetic, and when she spoke again her expression made sense.

“You must forgive them,” she said, gesturing briefly to Black Eyes. “These Noldor elves are not like their cousins. They are newcomers, yes? Not so used to humans. They often forget we are different.”

Lucy – who was by now horribly confused and increasingly fuzzy-headed from hearing English being spoken aloud – merely raised her head off the pillow and stared at the woman with eyes swollen from sleep, her expression deep with suspicion. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have thought to ask certain things. Important things, like how the woman knew English and where she came from, or if she could show her to Gandalf. But Lucy was cold, always cold, and there was a chill in her bones, sapping away her strength.

_Lucy,_ someone crooned, and she couldn’t place the voice, nor the itching sensation against her ear. _Lucy, come to me. I will take you somewhere warm._ She ignored the offer.

“Do you have an extra blanket?” she asked the woman, before breaking into a fit of coughing. It was the only thing her mind could process in its muddled state, and her voice was hoarse from not speaking for so long.

The woman made a sound of sympathy and immediately slid of her cloak. She draped it over Lucy, who simply crumpled under its weight. She felt so insubstantial and she was.

“Poor child.” the woman said. She sounded like she meant it. “It is a sad thing, to be claimed by elves.” There was an edge of bitterness to her voice that Lucy couldn’t place, so she didn’t try. Lucy simply rolled over and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth of the woman’s cloak. A few moments later, she went to sleep.

* * *

The woman's name was Morwen, Lucy learned after she woke up.

She came from the east, past the mountain range of Ered Luin along the westernmost edge of Rhovanion, in between the river Greylin and the northern tip of the Eryn Galen forest. The distance she’d had to traverse was only part of the reason why it had taken so long for her to arrive. They had ridden day and night for nearly a month on the fastest horses the elves could find, but everywhere the orcs were lurking. Morgoth was growing restless, and everyone was fleeing south.

None of this meant anything to Lucy, whose only impression of Morwen’s long-winded explanation was that the woman came from very, very far away. So far away that Lucy wondered why she’d bothered to come in the first place.

Because she was _asked_ , the woman said with a nervous glance towards the door. The elves had insisted, and elves being elves, she could not refuse. Lucy read between the lines well enough.

Morwen explained her arrival with the apologetic gaze of someone who knows their audience is barely listening, and Lucy was so sick that this wasn’t far from the truth. The woman spoke the elvish tongue, called _Sindarin_ , and after a long conversation with Black Eyes in which she told the elf that Lucy was sick from the constant chill, the elleth became desperate to overcompensate. Currently, she had Lucy sitting upright on the bed so she could swaddle her in blankets, constantly checking her temperature every minute or so with a slender hand pressed to her forehead.

Morwen talked over the elf’s haphazard ministrations, and Lucy watched her with saucer-wide eyes, not really processing the fact that she was once again having a conversation in English. It felt so surreal.

“This is why they wanted me to come.” Morwen said in her heavily accented tone. “To speak to you, yes? This tongue, they do not know it. I am surprised you are fluent. You do not look of the east.”

“Why the east?” Lucy croaked out. Morwen looked down, picking balls of lint off the front of her dark purple dress.

“There are no men from the west,” she intoned. “Only elves. Lots of elves. This is their land. My people do not have dealings with the Noldor, you see? We only hear of them through the Sindar.” Morwen then assured her that English was her mother tongue, but they did not call it that where she came from. They called it _Hûthem_ , after the ancient scholar who’d created it. Morwen’s speech may have sounded like English, but the differences were apparent in the offbeat way in which she arranged her words. Their written language varied, too. Silver Hair – whose name was Anaduilin – had show Morwen the books, but she could not read them. The only reason the woman was there was because the prison warden was from the east, and he’d recognized some of the words that Lucy had spoken.

“This tongue, they do not think to know it.” Morwen continued, sniffing with condescension. “I am sure they are regretting it now. But this Anaduilin – you know him, the Sinda with the silver hair? His kind were here long before the Noldor came. We do not see the Sindar often, my people, but they know of us, yes. And I know their tongue. I am a Council Member among my people. A wise woman, like my grandmother and her grandmother before her. We have had dealings with the elves from the east before.”

Silver Hair **was** different from the other elves. When Lucy asked Morwen about it half-heartedly – because she was struggling to keep up with the conversation even at the best of times – the woman explained that Sindar were Middle-earth elves, and Noldor were something else. Her tone of voice implied this was not a good thing.

“They are from the sea.” Morwen said, in relation to the Noldor. “The big ones, they left. They left and then they came back, and there was much killing and death and now there is war. There has been war for a very long time, you see. For my mother’s generation and her mother’s generation, and the generation before hers. The Sindar, they do not like these Noldor elves that came from beyond, because they killed the Sindar cousins too. The Noldor like their jewels. They like their swords. They make their precious metals and they swear their oaths, and they poked Morgoth like an evergreen hunter pokes a sleeping bear. Many hundreds of years have passed, and still there is war. Most of the north is lost. Their plan was foolish.”

Morwen waved in Black Eyes direction, pointing to the elleth before gesturing to her own nose and mouth.

“The Noldor, you can tell they are Noldor by how they look, you see? This one – Limbrethil, she named herself to me – she is Noldo. They are bigger than Sindar. Much bigger, and always dark-haired. They have straight noses like this –” Morwen gestured to her own nose, making it appear straighter “because there is different bones beneath. Different from my people. Different from your people. Different from Sindar, although not so much.” At this proclamation, Morwen made a vague gesture towards the door, where Anaduilin had disappeared to. He’d made himself scarce once Morwen had started talking, and Lucy wondered if it was **because** Morwen was talking. She talked an awful lot.

“The Sindar, you will not see so many of them here.” she confessed. “Or not so many as there are in the East. This is a Noldor city, ruled by one of their princes. The Noldor have many, many, many princes. Too many to count, I think.”

At this Lucy perked up, coughing slightly as she stared at Morwen from beneath sleep-heavy eyelids. “Where am I?” she asked, already short of breath. “Tommy… Tommy said we needed to arrive in the Third Age. She said there would be a white city, and there would be seven gates. We need to use the library. I have to find Gandalf.” She wanted to go _home_ , more than anything, but in lieu of home Lucy decided she would stick to Tommy’s plan. She felt bereft without her best friend to guide her, and didn’t know what to do with herself.

Morwen frowned in confusion, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. She turned to Black Eyes – now dubbed Limbrethil – who was currently making _cooing_ noises like one would do to a baby as she attempted to feed Lucy a biscuit. Morwen said a few words, and the two of them conversed rapidly for a moment, with Limbrethil shaking her head _no_ and nodding _yes_ several times over. The older woman finally turned around.

“I am sorry.” Morwen said. “I do not know of Gandalf or this _Third Age_ you speak of. I did not know if I was allowed to tell you this, but Limbrethil says there is to be a trial and you are to be taken above, so it does not matter much anymore. They think you are a spy, you see. But you are in Gondolin, yes? It is a white city. A Noldor city. They **good** kind of Noldor, Limbrethil insists I tell you. She is worried you will think they are Fëanorians and try to escape. I am not so sure of this term, but I think they are another type of elf.”

Lucy only clued in to the first half of the conversation, and immediately it filled her with a dull sort of dread.

“They think I’m a **spy**?” she croaked out. “They’re going to put me on trial?” If she were feeling more charitable, Lucy might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. If she’d had the energy to feel despair, she would have cried and wailed.

Morwen _hmmed_ , seeming to mull over her words before she spoke again.

“To be truthful, they think you are a baby-witch. A creation of Sauron’s, no? Limbrethil has told me a different word from baby-witch, but I do not know how to speak it, so this is the closest thing I can say to what they believe you are.”

"A _baby-witch_?" Lucy warbled. Morwen nodded.

“A not-so-grown witch. You speak in strange tongues and carry dangerous scrolls in scripts they cannot read. You whispered a spell to their lord, and it has made him sick. Sauron takes children all the time, you see. He takes them and he shapes them into servants of darkness. But elves like children, yes? They always want children, more and more, but too many of their children have died in the war. It is hurting them, I think. Limbrethil, she wants to know if you are an orphan.”

“Why?” Lucy asked with trepidation, still reeling and feeling discombobulated. The request was odd. When Lucy questioned it, the older woman gave her a smile that looked and felt false. Lucy knew it was false. “ **Why**?” she demanded, her tone rising to a wail. At that moment Limbrethil took the opportunity to tuck Lucy’s blankets snugly beneath her chin, smiling hopefully as she held up another biscuit and made a _cooing_ sound as she tried to maneuver it past her lips. Lucy glared at her and coughed fitfully, turning her head away.

“I’m not a baby,” she said, pleading for understanding from the strange woman who was sitting on the stool across from her bed. “Tell her I’m not a baby!”

Morwen looked uncomfortable, as if she were trying to find a way to word what she wanted to say in the most diplomatic manner possible. “The elves think you are a child.” she began gently.

“But I’m sixteen!”

As if on cue, Limbrethil seemed to decide the best cure for Lucy’s rising distress was a fresh round of biscuits, and she quickly grabbed Lucy’s chin to pop her mouth open, sticking a cracker in-between her teeth. Lucy glared at the elf, and Morwen gave her an apologetic shrug.

“Limbrethil has told me that all you eat is baby food without being sick, and these biscuits you eat are of such. You are short and small and not very strong, and your skin is still soft and new. To them, this is a baby.”

Immediately Lucy spat the biscuit out.

Limbrethil clicked her tongue in admonishment, quickly reaching up to clean Lucy’s face with the edge of her sleeve like a fastidious mother hen. Lucy tried to bat her hands away, but she was far too weak, and her flailing only seemed to make the black-eyed elf even more smothering in her attention. Morwen stood, gathering her heavy skirts around her as she made to move towards them. She lifted one of her hands in a soothing motion, trying to calm her down.

“Sweetness, it is good if they think you are young. **Better** that they think you are young. Please. You must calm yourself.”

“But I’m not a child!” Lucy insisted, feeling her frustration mounting. It was tempered only by her utter lack of energy. “I’m sixteen and my name is Lucy, and I jumped off a building because Tommy told me to. She said we needed to come to Middle-earth. I want to go back!”

Morwen frowned heavily and took another step closer, maneuvering around Limbrethil to sit on Lucy’s bed. Despite her age she was rather pleasant to look at, and although she was not nearly as beautiful as the elves, there was something striking about her features. The woman took Lucy’s right hand between hers, rubbing it for warmth. Lucy huddled defensively beneath her blankets, glaring outwards. When Morwen began talking, her words were slow and full of warning.

“I am sorry Sweetness. I know you are sick, and when one is sick and such things happen, they do not always understand. In truth, among my own people sixteen is rightfully a woman, when children can start having children of their own. I have had four myself. But these elves, they love children, you see? Always, they want more. It is better that they think you are young.”

It was the way in which she said her final words that caused Lucy’s sense of terror to rise. The woman was smiling falsely, and she could tell that beneath the veneer Morwen’s intentions were not benign.

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked with trepidation. Morwen sighed and leaned in close, her words quiet but harsh. It was a warning.

“Sweetness.” she said. “These are **Noldor**. The only reason you are alive is because they think you a child. If you were full grown, they would have killed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to those of you who reviewed/favorited/followed. I'm thrilled you guys are enjoying it.
> 
> A note on Morwen's name: Elves don't reuse names (canonically) but humans do, and as such there are a gazillion Morwens in Middle-earth. It can get a bit confusing, but for the sake of clarity I should state that the Morwen of this story is an OC: the name has simply been used because it's a recognizably human one, and it fits canonically within Tolkien's universe.
> 
> Thanks goes to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> There isn't that much this time, but I've basically come to the point where I'm unable to find certain words in either Sindarin or Quenya. Since Sindarin was originally based on Welsh, I've had to do some creative extrapolation from that. I've marked with asterisks which words fall under that category.
> 
> Im aiféa – I'm *sorry
> 
> Tengwane – Read (Quenya)
> 
> Medi, hên. Lá medi. – Eat, child. Please eat


	5. King's Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 11, 2016

Lucy was fascinated by the way that Morwen picked at her nails.

The woman had several nervous habits, and although she was not a nervous person herself, Lucy had spent the last month and a bit doing nothing but sleeping and observing others. The elves were difficult to study, since they tended to be more guarded around her from the start, but Morwen was friendly and very talkative, and above all, overtly anxious. She seemed unable to control her tics to a certain degree, her nervousness a direct result of the elves. The woman stayed still for great lengths of time, talking about nothing in particular, but it took Lucy less than a day – through various indirect hints – to discover that Morwen had been brought to Gondolin under extreme duress. It had definitely not been her choice.

Terse words had been spoken. An ultimatum may have been issued, but these Noldor, they meant well, Morwen insisted again and again. Her people were friendly, if distant, with the native Sindar, and of the elves from the sea they had no contact with. Unfortunately for Morwen, Noldor were Noldor, which is to say their pride was a factor. They were not accustomed to asking for things, and human beings were expendable when resources were scarce. When talking, Morwen would turn her left hand over, palm facing upwards, and with the dedication of miner she would pick miniscule specks of dirt from underneath her well-kept nails with a slightly shaking right hand. The woman would work from little finger to thumb, then turned her palm over and begin the process again. Never did she waver from her task once she started it. 

Morwen was not in Gondolin long before they decided to commence with the trial. Less than two days, by Lucy’s reckoning. The morning of the meeting, both Morwen and Limbrethil came to her cell ahead of time to ready her. The process was rather frantic, as Lucy – who had just woken up from dozing beneath her newly acquired blankets – was still sleepy, and in a particularly foul mood.

“In truth.” Morwen began, picking at her nails. “There almost wasn’t a trial. You would have stayed down her for much longer. Maybe too much longer, until you died, although I am not so sure on that one.”

Morwen was dressed in what Lucy assumed was an elvish style, her thick woolen gown replaced by a thinner one of somber gray. It was low in the shoulders but high in the bust line, making it drag straight across the ridge of her collarbones. Her dark hair was tied back, contained beneath a net of silver webbing.

“Why would that happen?” Lucy asked sluggishly, more for the sake of talking than curiosity itself. She shivered beneath Limbrethil’s ministrations, as she was feeling ill. Lucy always felt ill in the mornings, but she was feeling especially sick that day because she was being forced to get up. The subsequent vertigo from moving around was making her nauseous. She just wanted to sleep.

“There are eleven houses here, yes?” Morwen said, massaging the underside of her palm. “Elven lords and their peoples, and they follow the King. He is one of the Noldo princes I was telling you about. This place you are in now, it belongs to the House of the Mole, ruled by the prince’s nephew named Maeglin. You met him, yes? And Limbrethil and Anaduilin, they are of the House of the Mole as well, but it was not them that found you. Anaduilin says it was the House of the Swallow, or _Nothrim Duilin._ And these houses, they must come to an agreement on important issues before anything is decided. This is where the problem arose.”

Lucy shivered beneath her blanket and blinked sleep out of her eyes, her bare feet swinging over the side of the bed. Limbrethil had bathed her before Morwen arrived, and the elleth was currently trying to brush the tangles out of her hair. Above them the sunlight was shining into the cell with a peculiar intensity, but as with all spring mornings, the air was cool and crisp. Ever present in the background was the roar of the hidden ravine, and between Lucy’s fingers the texture of her blanket felt threadbare and scratchy. She wished she had something soft to hold. She liked soft things.

“Will Maeglin be there?” she mumbled. Limbrethil perked up at the name, but continued brushing her hair. Morwen raised an eyebrow.

“He will. He is the Lord of the House of the Mole, so he must attend, although Limbrethil tells me he has not been feeling well this past month. You have made him very troubled, this spell you whispered to him."

Lucy was correcting the other woman before she could think through her words. "I didn't say a spell." she muttered savagely, as Limbrethil _tched_ her tongue and forced Lucy to hold her head still. "I asked him if he fucked his cousin Idril. I don't think he understood."

Morwen was horrified.

“You should not have said that!” she hissed, leaning forward and massaging frantically at the underside of her palm. “What you did, it is a great offense! Elves do not marry their first cousins, and his cousin is the daughter of the King! The Noldo prince!” 

Still, Lucy kept going. She couldn’t seem to stop. "I didn't say marry. I said _fuck_. There's a difference."

Morwen moaned and rubbed at her forehead in despair.

“Sweetness, no. No, you must not say things like that. You must think before you talk, understand? These Noldor are already troubled. They have been at war for a long, long time. If you upset them enough, they will not care that you are a child. They will kill you.”

Lucy didn’t care either way. Already she was thinking about other things, her attention diverted.

“The archer that found me – the one with the big white bow. Is he from the Swallow Nest?”

"The _House_ of the Swallow, Sweetness. And yes."

"House of the Swallow." Lucy repeated, rolling the words over her tongue before saying _Nothrim Duilin_ aloud. Limbrethil looked up at the name and smiled gently, patting Lucy's cheek in encouragement. When she shivered, Limbrethil made a soft noise of concern, retrieving a baby biscuit and handing it to her. Lucy nibbled on it mechanically. She wasn’t hungry, but she felt a little less dizzy when she ate, so she did.

"Nothrim Duilin." she said again, her voice muffled by her cookie. She could almost taste the strangeness of the words. Limbrethil pointed to her own chest, speaking slowly so Lucy could follow the sounds.

"Limbrethil." she announced. Lucy squinted at her. "Limbrethil." the elleth repeated. "Lucy mellon nîn."

"What's mellon nîn mean?" Lucy asked.

" _My friend_." Morwen translated.

“Nothrim Maeglin.” Limbrethil said next, patting her black-clad chest in affirmation. Lucy parroted her words, albeit with difficulty. The elleth grinned in delight and spoke a few more rapid-fire sentences, before planting an affectionate kiss against Lucy’s temple. Morwen was still rubbing at her forehead in consternation, as if fighting off an incoming headache.

“The archer.” Lucy said, nibbling on her biscuit. “I spoke to him, and he hit me. He split open my head.”

Morwen looked like she was dreading her answer. "And what did you say to the archer, to make him do so?"

Lucy finished off her biscuit. " _Where is Sauron?_ "

Limbrethil paled. Morwen rubbed at her forehead anew, closing her eyes.

“Ai, this trial will be a disaster. A disaster.” she lamented. Lucy was unconcerned. She should’ve been, but the shock of being where she was had begun to wear off. Malaise was powerful, if not persistent, and at the moment she was feeling too ill to care.

“You said there almost wasn’t a trial?” Lucy queried, as an afterthought.

“Yes.” Morwen said reluctantly, as she went back to picking at her nails. “The Lord Maeglin was furious, and wished to let you rot. Only the House of the Swallow desired to speak with you, and he refused. One house cannot attack another to take what they want, so the House of the Swallow told the House of the Hammer, and they took offense, as they do not like the House of the Mole. The Lord of the Hammer shared this news with the Lord of the Fountain, and the Lord of the Fountain told the Lord of the Golden Flower. This Lord of the Golden Flower, he is not a subtle elf, yes? Or so Limbrethil says. He was upset that a child was being kept in the dungeons, and he took his concerns to the King. Now, you are to be taken above for questioning. I think they wish to talk to you, nothing more.”

The explanation was lost on Lucy. All she got from it was that Gondolin had a million houses prone to infighting, like a series of neighbors fighting over which side of the white-picket fence the damage had fallen on. Her patience was running dangerously low. And Tommy, Tommy was dead, and she couldn’t –

Her chest hurt. Everything hurt. Lucy sucked in a hard breath and tried not to think about it. She mostly failed, as her impulse control was poor.

“I’m cold,” she mumbled, her teeth chattering audibly. Morwen sighed at Lucy’s lack of interest, translating her words. When she did, Limbrethil gave Lucy a gentle smile, before picking up one of the previously discarded blankets and wrapping it around her shoulders. Lucy let her.

Just before the knock sounded at the door, Morwen got up and crouched beside Lucy, taking both her hands in her own and looking at her with a solemn expression. “Before we leave, there are things I must tell you.” she said. “I hope they are not wrong, because they are things I learned from being around Sindar, not Noldor, but we shall see.”

Up close, Morwen seemed to be nothing more than one writhing mass of gray, her insides churning with the atmospheric tension that came just before a storm. A year before all of this had happened, Lucy’s perpetually nervous mother had taken her to see a psychiatrist. The doctor had diagnosed Lucy’s oddness as an external synaethesia; a sort of hypersensitivity combined with systemic delusions that made her assign values and hues to other people’s behavior like they were color swatches on a paint rack.

“You’re nervous.” Lucy stated, her voice taking on a faraway lilt. She placed her hand against the center of Morwen’s chest to feel the beating of the woman’s heart. Lucy didn’t know if the elves had hearts like humans did, but Morwen was human, and her heart was pounding.  “Your insides, they’re gray. I can see them.”

Morwen eyed her strangely, leaning back at her touch.

“I am not sure what sort of spell you just spoke.” the woman began, her words low and full of warning. “But I would advise you against doing such things in front of the Noldor. They will think you are a witch. Sauron’s baby-witch. If you cannot be saved, they will be forced to kill you. Sometimes Sauron corrupts too much.”

"I didn't come here to serve Sauron." Lucy countered, her voice serene. She was floating in the malaise again. That distinct, hazy sensation where her senses numbed and she cared about very little at all. "I came here to serve Tommy, but she's dead now."

Morwen looked even more disquieted. "Will more follow you, where you come from?" She asked.

Lucy blinked, looking down. She thought about the seven-story building. About the traffic weaving in and out below them and the way the wind had pushed her pleated skirt against her legs. Tommy's hand had been firm in hers, small and short and slightly clammy. Tommy wasn't there anymore, but her blood had been the most startling shade of red.

"No." she said slowly. "I think they'll die first. I was supposed to die, too."

"That is good. Good." Morwen agreed in a rush. "Not that you are not dead, I mean, but that others will not follow. They will like that. It will work in your favor. Are you an orphan?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

Morwen's grip on her hand tightened. “The elves." she said simply. "They wish to know."

"Why are you even here?" Lucy asked instead. Morwen gave a little jolt, and a small look of hurt passed over her features. The words had not been spoken kindly. Lucy hadn’t meant to do so, but she was awkward when speaking, and even more awkward when asking questions.

"You know why I am here." the woman said uncertainly, her expression guarded. "I was asked."

"You mean you were forced to. I don't like it when people lie to me. You shouldn't lie. It makes your insides rotten."

"Sweetness, you need to listen to me –"

Lucy re-gripped Morwen's hand in her own. "It's alright," she said with a smart little nod. "I forgive you." She did. It wasn’t the woman’s fault the elves were awful.

Morwen expression became downright alarmed.

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and all three of them turned towards the noise. When Limbrethil opened the door, Silver Hair – now dubbed Anaduilin – was standing there. Behind him there were six black-clad guards, their faces covered entirely by intricate helms of silver.

"Hana lhû." Anaduilin said in his even, mellow voice. He looked particularly severe today, his pale hair out of its customary knot and tied back in a series of braids. Limbrethil nodded, and Morwen rubbed at her brow with her hand. She clenched Lucy's hand in the other, her expression full of concern.

"You are not ready," she was muttering under her breath. "You are not. It is no good."

Anaduilin strode forward, and instead of Limbrethil helping her stand, the ellon was the one to pick her up. It was a fact that Lucy did not like and was not expecting, as it deviated from the norm. She reared backwards when Anaduilin tried to touch her, and it made the fine-boned elf pause, his hands resting briefly in midair. Then he said something in a sharp tone that booked no argument. Morwen translated for him.

“Anaduilin says you can either let him help you, or he will find a guard that will carry you instead. It is your choice.”

Lucy pouted and sat still, letting the elf approach. Morwen retreated to the hallway to stand between the guards, but Limbrethil remained where she was, her expression one of worry.

"No bân." she warned, and the ellon paused yet again. He shot Limbrethil a side-eyed glance, but said nothing more as he gripped one of Lucy's hands in his, forcing her to stand despite her protests. Lucy gasped in pain when he did. She hadn’t stood – much less walked – in so long that her limbs were like jelly, causing her to sag and for Anaduilin to grab her around the waist to keep her from falling. The breaks in her leg were mostly healed, but the bones were still sore and tender. Up close the ellon seemed alarmingly tall. He was smaller than most of the elves that Lucy had seen, but this meant little in regards to herself, as she didn’t even reach his shoulder. Limbrethil made a waspish comment when Lucy whimpered, and Anaduilin responded easily enough. The elleth frowned, then turned and disappeared into the hallway, but neither Anaduilin nor Morwen said anything. The silver-haired warden didn’t look at Lucy as he skillfully maneuvered her towards the door. She walked with a noticeable limp.

Once in the hallway, Lucy leaned sideways to ask Morwen what the elves’ conversation had been about. Morwen shot a nervous glance towards the warden. “Limbrethil expressed concern about taking you to the trial.” she said. “She offered to help you to the Council Chamber, but Anaduilin refused.”

The warden chose that moment to pull Lucy closer, guiding her step by step along the corridor. Two of the silver-helmed guards spread out in front of them, their black cloaks swaying slightly with the movement as they walked.

“Why did he refuse?” Lucy asked. Morwen let go of her palm to start rubbing at her forehead, her other hand reaching down to lift up the hem of her skirt.

“It is politics,” she said. “Limbrethil is only a minor warden. A sort of nurse, you see? She does not have the rank to attend the trial, but she says this should not be the case. You are still weak, and in need of care. But Anaduilin, he is Captain of the Prison Guard. It is his job to bring you there, and no one else’s.”

Anaduilin said nothing while Morwen gave this explanation, and in truth he didn’t speak the entire way there. The ellon remained characteristically somber, and with the exception of an occasional glance towards various elves waiting in the hallway, he didn’t acknowledge a soul. Their going was slow but their pace was steady; a feat Anaduilin achieved by guiding Lucy with an arm that remained permanently latched around her middle. Around them, the corridor was long and wide, the ceiling greening with moss. Lucy could hear the constant roar of the ravine from somewhere beneath their feet, and it piqued her curiosity. If she couldn’t find Gandalf, escape was her only option.

“Is there a river under the prison?” she asked, coughing on the moisture-rich air. Morwen shrugged, her silver hair net shimmering against the low light of the torches. They were dimmed today, either because the daylight was shining in from the stone-cut hatches, or because the light itself wasn’t needed. Tommy had always said that elves saw well in the dark.

“I do not know.” Morwen admitted, staring straight ahead. “When I was brought to the city, there was water flowing out from underneath it, yes? And a moat that circled the bottom. I am not sure where the water rests once it is beneath Gondolin.”

Soon they passed the door to the bunker-like room where Lucy had been questioned, and when they reached a set of stairs, the guards quickly scaled up. Morwen daintily lifted the hem of her skirt to keep herself from tripping, and followed in turn. Lucy glared at the stairwell, not looking forward to the prospect of climbing, but before she could take her first step Anaduilin was leaning down and sliding his arms beneath her, picking her up. Lucy did not like being picked up – specifically, she did not like _surprises_ – and flailed wildly when the elf hoisted her off the ground. Eventually she was forced to wrap her arms around the ellon’s neck for balance. Anaduilin let her do so, but the way that he bit at his cheek while he climbed the stairs made it clear that he didn’t like it.

The warden’s hair was tied back, but the wisps of it were very long, escaping his braids to dance along the base of his neck. The silver strands were soft as baby hair and just as fine, and it wasn’t until he jerked his head away that Lucy realized that she’d been fiddling with them subconsciously, rubbing the locks between her fingertips.

_So soft_ , she though _._ Lucy loved soft things, and baby hair felt wonderful. Morwen watched them from the top of the stairs, her hands clasped together and a frown on her face.

“You should not touch his hair,” she warned. “It is not proper.”

Lucy dutifully removed her hand from the ellon’s hair. Anaduilin straightened his head and once again began walking. In an act of defiance, Lucy dropped her own head to rest it casually against his shoulder, her thick brown locks pooling messily beneath his chin. The elf tolerated this action, but only barely, and around her middle Lucy could feel his hand flexing in irritation.

“Why?” she asked Morwen, watching the woman with a heavy gaze from her perch in the warden’s arms. She was tired again, and cared not a whit about what others thought of her in general. “Limbrethil touches my hair all the time.” She paused, thinking back. “Maeglin did, too.”

"They are Noldor." Morwen said simply. "It is different for them, and you are a child in their eyes. Anaduilin is Sinda. His people think differently than those from the sea."

It was a simple enough explanation, and one that Lucy readily accepted. She was too tired and worn out to fight the woman needlessly on the subject.

When they emerged from the dungeons into the daylight, Lucy was near-blinded by the sudden change in brightness. Outside, the whole area was comprised of pure white marble, seemingly designed to reflect the glare.

Lucy buried her head against Anaduilin’s shoulder, but when she lifted it again, she discovered that it was a brilliantly sunny day out. She was in an enclosed courtyard of sorts; the sort one would see in the outer rings of a castle, complete with silver-clad guards walking along the parapets. On the farthest side of the courtyard there was a large archway decorated in golden leaf, with a cobblestone path leading through it on an upward incline towards the heart of the city. In front of them there was the entrance to another passageway, and to the right there was an eleven-story building, more tall than wide. Everything about the courtyard was light and airy, with white walls against white stone steps and even whiter floors. On all sides Lucy could see the tips of tall buildings with sharply slanted roofs, and to the right of the courtyard the buildings climbed upwards towards the center of the city. A single white tower sat there, taller than all the others. The tip of it was gilt in gold.

Morwen asked something of the guards, then turned to Lucy, nodding her head towards the golden pinnacle. "That is the King's Tower," she said. "The Tower of Turgon. It is where we are to go."

Lucy said nothing, huddling in on herself as she squinted against the daylight. Everything was beautiful and bright and clean. Above, she could see baby blue sky and wisp-like clouds, and the courtyard was pleasantly warm beneath the sun. There was no sense of danger here, nor any disturbance to indicate cause for alarm. If the elves were at war, they certainly didn’t act like it.

Anaduilin marched them into the passage ahead, the guards fanning out on either side. When they entered, Lucy blinked again, readjusting to the new level of light. The silver-haired ellon kept a firm grip on her, only stopping once to hoist her up. Lucy didn’t like being carried by strangers, but she let him do so because she was sick. The corridor was well kept, the curving walls covered in intricate carvings. There were no torches around them, as none were needed. With the exception of Anaduilin, Morwen, and the six silver-clad guards, the hallway was empty. The stillness of it gave the impression of a brightly lit mausoleum.

“This passage is a secret one, yes?” Morwen began as they walked further and further. The corridor seemed to curl inwards, up and to the right at the same time. “Well, not so secret, I suppose.” The older woman corrected a moment later. “I cannot translate the word well enough, but the guard told me this way is used to travel to the Tower. The place where your trial will be held.”

Lucy blinked sluggishly against Anaduilin's shoulder, her response somewhat slurred. "Is there a courthouse there?"

Morwen frowned and seemed ready to shrug, then settled on shaking her head instead. There was a perplexed expression on her face, and as she spoke her voice echoed eerily along the marble corridor.

“This _courthouse_ , I do not know it,” she admitted. “But I do not think so, if I am understanding what you say is right. The King’s Tower, they have not told me what it looks like, but Limbrethil says it is where the Council Chamber is. The King holds his audience there.”

"How are they going to try me, if there's no courthouse?" Lucy asked. "You need a Jury, and a Judge. I want a lawyer, too. Everyone gets a lawyer. It's the law."

Morwen's lips twisted into a frown.

“These words, this _jury_ and _lawyer_ , I do not know them, although they **will** judge you, to see if you can be saved. I am not so sure if _trial_ is the right word to use, yes? It is the proper meaning, but I do not know how Noldor go about these things. Sindar, their justice is swift. If you are guilty, they will kill you and be done with it. Limbrethil tells me this method is very crude. Noldor love children, and children are less set in their ways. The elves want to talk to you, I think. Only talk. To question you about the books.”

Morwen then launched into an explanation of what Lucy shouldn’t do during the so-called trial: how she should act, the proper way to respond to questions, to mind her manners and to always tell the truth. The more Morwen talked, the more peevish and ill-tempered Lucy became. The older woman went on and on without saying much at all, and rarely did her explanations make sense. Lucy wondered if the woman talked because she was nervous. She wondered if Anaduilin was annoyed because Morwen seemed incapable of silence. Lucy knew **she** was annoyed. More and more, she felt like misbehaving, and soon the woman’s nervous chatter began to trigger another headache.

Tommy. Lucy wanted Tommy. She didn’t know what to do, and everything hurt.

“If I read them the books, will they let me go?” Lucy asked. Her head was pounding, and although being carried by Anaduilin was preferable to walking, the warden himself was not so comfortable. His tunic had small silver studs all across it, and the nubs of them were digging into her skin.

Morwen shrugged, her expression grim.

“I do not know,” she admitted. “To be truthful, I do not know if either of us can. The King does not let anyone leave the city once they are here, but my children will be waiting for me. It is not… I am… we can **hope** , I guess.” After this portentous omission, Morwen fell silent. Lucy did too. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life trapped in the city, without Tommy or any way of going anywhere. Silently, she decided that if she ever got loose, she would jump from one of Gondolin’s tallest towers. If she could fall into Middle-earth, then she could fall out of it as well.

Another ten minutes passed before they emerged into an antechamber, filled with large marble pillars and a single sharply arched window to the left. Anaduilin began ascending up a narrow staircase to the right. At the top of the stairs, they came to a small landing in front of a gilded pair of doors. The entrance was guarded by a pair of golden-helmed guards, each of them dressed in ivory and russet-red. There was an air of importance about the way that they held themselves, and Lucy assumed they’d reached the doors to the Council Chamber.

Just before they entered, Anaduilin set her down. Lucy swayed as the ellon stepped back to speak to one of the sentries, and Morwen quickly came forward to take his place.

“Now remember what I told you.” she said in a whisper, gripping Lucy’s hand in her own as she started guiding her up the short flight of stairs to the main door. “If you follow my instructions, you will be fine. Pretend you are younger, yes? Noldor, they do not like hurting children. If you are an orphan, they will like it even less.” Lucy followed, but didn’t want to. Her head was pounding and she was beginning to see double. Beside her, she could feel Morwen’s anxiety radiating off her in waves. When she looked over, she noticed that the woman was perspiring slightly despite the briskness of the air. Her complexion was peakish.

“Why do you care?” Lucy asked, genuinely curious. Morwen leaned in close and gripped her hand, speaking low as they reached the top of the stairs. 

"Because." she said. "If they think you are tainted, they will kill me too."

Lucy looked up at that. And instead of Morwen standing beside her, she saw a corpse.

It was Morwen, but not Morwen, as if all of Morwen’s exterior varnish had been stripped away. Beside her was a woman much thinner than the one she knew, almost wasted looking; her face pinched with hunger and her eyes white with decay. Morwen’s throat was slit from ear to ear, and there was a sheet of black blood spilling down her front.

Lucy let out a ragged gasp and tried to jerk away.

The wraith-woman looked at her. For a second, all Lucy saw was the face of a monster, before it flickered back to Morwen’s and then reversed, like a glitching roll of film at the end of a tape. A moment later, the glitching receded, and the woman she knew was once again in place. Morwen was eyeing her with concern, her grip on her elbow almost painfully tight.

“What’s wrong, Sweetness?” she asked. There was an edge to the woman’s voice.

_I’m imagining it,_ Lucy told herself, blinking repeatedly in the hopes that it would clear her vision. _I’m imagining it. I **have** to be._

Ahead of them, the doors swung open. Anaduilin stepped aside to let them enter. Morwen turned to stare straight ahead as if nothing had happened, an expression of false cheer working itself across her features. Lucy tried hard not to gag. 

There was nothing wrong with Morwen. There couldn’t be. No matter how hard she stared at the woman, the visage of the starving, mutilated wraith never returned. She was just sick, and the sickness was making her see things that weren’t there. As they entered the Tower of the King, Lucy almost believed her own excuses. But then, she hadn’t thought that Middle-earth was real, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Glorfindel and Turgon finally make an appearance, and Maeglin returns! A big thanks to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing, too.
> 
> Side note on the "Eleven Houses of Gondolin," as described by Morwen: for those eagle-eyed readers out there who are familiar with Tolkien's expanded universe, you'll know that Gondolin had twelve houses when it fell. The twelfth house – and smallest– belonged to Tuor, but this story begins several decades before Tuor arrives. As far as I've been able to tell from my readings, there was no twelfth house before Tuor came along, so to keep things simple I've just stuck to eleven. If anyone has any information to the contrary, feel free to correct me.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> A small disclaimer for the word nothrim: I've been trying to research the proper wording for "House of" in Sindarin, but I've come across conflicting reports. Best I can tell, nothrim works as class plural that roughly translates to "those of the house." Once again, apologies for the bad Sindarin.
> 
> Nothrim Duilin – Those of the House Duilin
> 
> Lucy mellon nîn - Lucy (is) my friend
> 
> Nothrim Maeglin – Those of the House Maeglin
> 
> Hana lhû – It's time
> 
> No bân – Be careful/good/fair


	6. The Baby-Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 11, 2016

The Council Chamber was massive, oblong and shaped like an oval, the ceiling vaulted with delicate buttresses and gilt with sheets of gold.

Every surface of the room – from the marble pillars to the rooftop above – were covered in intricate carvings, depicting scenes of battle and beings that looked a bit like elves. The marble here was a warmer color, almost ivory in tone. Lining either side of the room were giant, sharply arched windows, letting in streams of sunlight. From where she stood, Lucy could see white-winged birds flocking outside the Council Chamber, their cries loud and raucous. Beyond that were the tips of the city towers, clustered like delicate icicles glittering beneath the sky. Further on there was the ring of the encircling mountains, their peaks frosted with snow.

The gilded doors slammed shut behind them as Morwen guided her forward. Anaduilin fell into step just ahead of them, his back straight and expression sombre as he strode briskly across the room.

Inside the chamber the golden-helmed guards were numerous, standing in front of every pillar and two abreast of each window. At the end of the room there was a raised dais that spanned the width of the hall. Twelve marble chairs were on the platform; all of the seats except one were occupied. Lucy couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness that had come about her; the dread she had felt upon seeing the Not-Morwen with the wraith-like face. Her worry was so pervasive that Lucy actually tripped in alarm, her clumsiness made worse by her already-persistent illness. When she did, Morwen gripped her elbow to keep her steady. The older woman put her other hand to her forehead to feel her temperature. Lucy let her, her cheeks feeling hot. The sensation of wrongness got worse.

"Oh no. Sweetness, no." Morwen murmured. "It is not good. You are burning up. Limbrethil, she was right."

Lucy said nothing, swaying where she stood. Morwen looped her arm around Lucy's middle, supporting her weight with her own while they walked towards the dais. The woman looked towards the elves sitting on the platform, her smile benign but forced.

"Be good, Sweetness." she reminded her through gritted teeth, rubbing Lucy's hand with hers. "All you have to do is speak as I told you to, and it will be fine. You will see."

"Do you think I work for Sauron too?" Lucy asked, her tongue feeling thick inside her mouth. Morwen's smile remained rigid as ever. She shook her head.

"No. You are very strange, but I do not think you serve Sauron." There was a pause. "Not willingly, at least.”

It was not a comforting proclamation. Lucy felt sick. "I think I'm going to throw up." She told her. Morwen held her close.

"No you won't, Sweetness. You will be fine. I am sure of it."

Lucy didn't think so, but said nothing more. Her stomach wouldn't allow it.

They were nearing the marble dais. A breeze wafted in through one of the open windows, rustling Lucy’s hair. She could hear the distant roar of traffic coming from outside the tower: a mixture of people talking, animals braying and children laughing. They were close enough now that Lucy was able to make out some of the details of the raised platform. In the center sat a very large elf dressed all in ivory, his robes edged with delicate patterns of gold along the cuffs. His jet-black hair was glossy and falling to mid-chest, and around his head there was an intricate coronet inlaid with red stones. His countenance screamed of aristocracy.

Morwen nodded briefly to the ellon, speaking low into Lucy's ear as they approached. Their footsteps sounded loudly against the polished floor. "That is the King." she said. "His name is Turgon – the Noldo prince I was telling you about."

Turgon’s eyes were gray, his features handsome, but if it hadn’t been for the healthy glow to his slightly tanned skin, Lucy would have mistaken him for _Maeglin_ , of all people. The chair to the left of the King was conspicuously absent, but the Lord of the Mole himself was seated on the right. He was a vision of death compared to Turgon, but the familial resemblance between the two was unmistakable.

The minute Maeglin’s eyes locked on hers, Lucy became angry with the elf lord, suddenly and irrationally so. The ellon had done nothing but sit there, but just seeing him was a trigger in of itself for all the repressed emotions that she’d kept hidden over the past month and a half. Lucy was keenly aware of how conscious he was of her; of how uncomfortable she was making him, just by being there. As Maeglin stared, he flexed his pale fingers against his black clad knee in a gesture that she unmistakably recognized as _anger._ The dislike was mutual, it seemed. Lucy was glad for it.

It was then that she decided to do something incredibly stupid. The first of many stupid things in a relatively short period of time, but Lucy was sick and anxious. Her internal fuse was already fried.

"Hello Maeglin." she said with an ugly sort of smile. Not loudly, but clear enough that everyone on the dais heard her.

Instantly Morwen clapped her hand over Lucy’s mouth to silence her. The King turned to look at his nephew with a heavy-lidded stare. Maeglin’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. He shot a jagged glare in Lucy’s direction, but Lucy was feeling so ill she was seeing double whenever she moved, so she didn’t really catch it. Still, she got a perverse satisfaction out of making the elf lord upset. Tommy would be proud of her, she knew. Tommy hated Maeglin, so Lucy hated Maeglin. She’d do anything for best friend, even though the other girl was dead.

Her hand still over Lucy's mouth, Morwen said something apologetic sounding to Anaduilin. He had stopped just ahead and was glaring back at them as well. Morwen then turned to Lucy, speaking softly but in a frantic manner.

"What did I just say? Oh Sweetness, please **think**." she begged, before sliding her hand back up to feel Lucy's forehead. Her fingers were cold. Even though she couldn't get the vision of the Morwen-wraith out of her head, Lucy was so hot she felt like she was in a sauna, so she leaned into the woman's touch.

"You are burning up." Morwen whispered. "This is not good. It is not. Ai, I wish we were dealing with Sindar. They are so much simpler."

The woman then turned to Anaduilin, speaking quietly to him and with great alarm. In the background Turgon was conversing with Maeglin, who’d begun to slouch in his chair like a petulant child. His dark eyes were downcast, his spider-like lashes fanning out across his cheeks. It made him look exceptionally submissive, but Lucy didn’t care. She was feeling too angry at seeing him again to heed the warnings, and she wanted to make Maeglin hurt.

"I didn't say anything bad." Lucy told Morwen, interrupting the woman as she spoke. Not once did she stop glaring at the dark-haired elf lord. "I just wanted to say _hello_."

Morwen bit down on her bottom lip in frustration. "That is not the point," she said stiffly. Lucy was too far-gone to care.

The feeling of wrongness that plagued her persisted. There was also another feeling, an almost prickling _awareness_ between her shoulder blades: the unmistakable sensation of being watched. **Everyone** was watching her, with expressions ranging from mild annoyance to outright alarm, but this person's gaze was more intense than all the others, and it wasn't coming from Maeglin.

Dull-eyed and fighting the desire to vomit, Lucy looked instinctively to the left, towards the source.

A tall elf sat in one of the twelve chairs, dressed all in white and gold and ivory. His back was rigid in agitation; his jaw clenched as he worked his long fingers repeatedly against the armrests of his chair. The ellon had gold hair. Not a pale blond, but a deep golden hue so rich and burnished it looked like liquid metal. In fact, Lucy's first impression of the elf was that he was **all** hair, as his was thick as a lion's mane, falling in heavy waves down his shoulders and over his arms to end somewhere past his hips. Part of it was tied away from his face, but there was just so much of it that the majority of his golden tresses hung loose. There was a golden-sheathed greatsword resting by the left side of his chair, and a dagger at his hip. Immediately, the elf lord reminded Lucy of Rapunzel. He was staring at her as if he didn’t know how not to.

When the ellon realized that Lucy was staring at him, he tensed up further, digging his fingers into the armrests of his chair. His knuckles turned white. Rapunzel had sapphire blue eyes, deep in chroma and bright as his endless hair. His face was oddly young, but strikingly beautiful, his features twisted into a perfect picture of distress. The ellon was pale like all the elves there, but his complexion was so porcelain it bordered on doll-like. Absently, Lucy decided that he must have been ridiculously pretty as a child. She had a brief moment where she imagined a little boy running across the throne room on unsteady legs with golden hair longer than he was, before Anaduilin came over and re-gripped her elbow. He took her from Morwen's grasp, steering her forward with more force than necessary.

"Pada." he commanded softly. Morwen translated the command to "walk" with an unsteady voice, looking at Lucy with concern.

At Rapunzel's side, a black-haired ellon dressed in blue leaned sideways, placing a delicate hand against the elf lord’s arm as he spoke in a calming tone. Whatever he said did no good, as Rapunzel only grew more agitated. Lucy didn't know what was going on, but at her elbow Anaduilin was biting the inside of his cheek, a sure sign he was upset. On his throne Turgon was looking towards the ceiling, clenching his jaw as if searching for some vestige of patience.

When Lucy tripped and nearly collapsed, Rapunzel immediately leaned forward, gripping the armrests of his chair as he made to rise towards her. The ellon beside him slapped the golden-haired elf across the arm with a whip-fast movement, making a _tching_ noise in admonishment as he pushed his companion back into his seat.

"Laurëfindil, daro ha!" he commanded in a hissing whisper.

Rapunzel sat, albeit barely. He tapped the heel of his foot repeated against the ground as he continued to stare blatantly in Lucy’s direction. At the end of the row several chairs down, another elf lord let out an exasperated sigh, resting his head in his hands.

Lucy took another step. This time she **did** collapse, held up only by Anaduilin's arms. The silver-haired warden reached beneath her armpits, carrying her up the last few steps to deposit her in a heap at the dais. Lucy immediately sunk into a crouch to level her center of gravity, trying to combat the dizziness.

In his chair, Rapunzel squirmed, but managed to stay seated. Anaduilin retreated several paces away but remained within arm's reach. Morwen stepped forward, bowing low before the King and conversing briefly with the Noldo prince. Turgon had a deep voice, smooth and glacial as winter. Lucy would have thought from the way that he spoke that nothing could get a rise out of him, but there was a flinty hardness to his gaze that spoke of stubbornness, and the way his fingers twitched against his armrest implied frustration. Morwen retreated and crouched beside Lucy, looking from her to the King. Her tone was soft and encouraging as she spoke.

"To make things easy, the King says he will be the one to ask all the questions, and any questions the other lords have they will ask through him as well. I will say what he says, and you will answer, understand? And you must answer truthfully. Turgon, he is a **good** Noldo, he bade me tell you. He wants you to know he is not like the Fëanorians, and if you are honest with him he will treat you well. He says he is very sorry that his nephew kept you in the dungeons for so long. It was over-zealous of him, and Maeglin is young. He means you no ill will."

"I don't care." Lucy said miserably, her patience shot as she swayed where she crouched. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t supposed to be here. This was Tommy’s idea, not mine. I want to see Tommy’s body. I want my cell.”

She was feeling sick. So very, very sick. The sensation of impending doom was getting worse, and she was hot and cold all over. Morwen gave her a sympathetic grimace, putting a hand to her shoulder. Lucy shuddered in revulsion, remembering the vision of the woman's wraith-like face. Still, no matter how long she stared at her, Morwen remained the same: all shades of gray and constantly nervous. Her visage didn't flicker.

_I'm imagining it._ She repeated inside her head. _It isn't real._

"Please, Sweetness, just bear it for the time being." Morwen said. "It will be over soon, I swear." Lucy simply hunched inwards, wrapping her arms around her legs and burying her head against her knees to keep herself from vomiting.

In his seat Rapunzel made a sympathetic noise and started to rise, the action seemingly without thought. Beside him the black-haired elf immediately pushed the ellon down, and the King shot them both an unimpressed glare. He then turned to Morwen, speaking to her in an even tone. Morwen relayed his words, and Lucy listened dejectedly. Beside the King, Maeglin looked as miserable as she felt. Disarmingly so.

"The King says that if you are a ward of his cousins, you may know his name as _Turukáno_ , as they prefer to speak in the tongue of old. Among the rest of the Noldor, however, he is known as Turgon, Son of Fingolfin, Lord of Nevrast and King of Gondolin, brother to the High King Fingon. He wishes to know your name."

"Lucy." said Lucy miserably, not looking up. Morwen relayed this information to the King, who did not look impressed one way or another. He continued talking. Morwen spoke as he spoke.

"How old are you, Lucy?"

"Sixteen." Lucy said.

On the dais, Rapunzel drew in a sharp breath. Maeglin looked sideways at his uncle with a guilty expression, his nervousness making him seem much younger than he actually was. The King could have been made of stone, for all the concern he showed.

"Are you an orphan?" Morwen translated, and Lucy shrugged, pressing her head harder against her knees.

"I guess so." she finally admitted. "I don't think I'm going back." She **wanted** to, but knew it was a long shot. The King leaned to the side and rubbed at his forehead, balancing his temple against the tips of his fingers. When he spoke, his voice was strained. Morwen's words rang clearly through the hallway as she translated for him.

"The King wishes to know if you hail from Fëanorian territory: if you served his cousins, and if so, which one. He does not wish to bring up painful memories for you, as the Fëanorians are very good at making orphans of others, and he suspects this to be your fate, but he must ask you all the same. You come bearing books speaking of Silmarils, and Silmarils and Fëanorians go hand in hand. This is never a good thing."

"I don't know what Fëanorians are."

The King remained blank faced, but eventually said something to Morwen. She translated it in a halting manner with a questioning lilt to her voice.

"He says if you do not know who the Fëanorians are, then it is of little concern. Instead, he wishes to know where you hail from, if not from the north."

"Earth."

A brief pause followed. "The King wishes to know if you mean _Middle_ -earth."

"No, I mean _Earth_ Earth." Lucy said. "What did they do with Tommy? I want to see Tommy's body."

Morwen's expression was apologetic as she spoke. "The King says he will show you the body afterwards, so long as you answer his questions truthfully."

"I want to see Tommy **now**." Lucy insisted. Morwen didn't translate this.

"The King wishes to know where _Earth_ is." the woman said. Lucy didn't look up, feeling belligerent.

"Nowhere he can find it," she slurred into her knees. "If he wants to go there, he'll have to jump off a building. I have to talk to Gandalf. I think he can send me back."

For some reason the mention of "jumping off buildings" made Maeglin pale past the point of no return. His reaction was so noticeable that the King actually put a hand to the smaller elf's shoulder to steady him, squeezing it in comfort. Down the row of seats to the right, a brown-haired ellon with pale blue eyes and dark navy robes shot his companion a heartfelt glance. The King waited until the moment passed. When Morwen began translating again, her voice was heavy with trepidation.

"The King and his Lords do not know this name of _Gandalf._ Instead, he wishes to know if Sauron told you to jump off a tower. If he sent you here by his own volition, or on the orders of his master."

Lucy swayed and turned her head against her knees, swallowing heavily to fight the feeling of nausea. "No." she said, then amended "I don't know. It was a building, not a tower. Tommy said we needed to jump off it. She wanted to be a prophet. A lot of people are going to die."

Morwen paused, before admitting tersely “Sweetness, I do not think that is a wise thing to say.”

“It’s the truth." 

The woman’s lips twisted with clear displeasure, but she translated anyways. The King’s expression furrowed. "And how do you know this?" Morwen relayed for him.

Lucy shrugged. "I read it in a book. Tommy's book." Then, without thought "The Dark Lord is going to find this city. He's going to find Gondolin and he's going to burn it to the ground. Everyone's going to die."

Her proclamation – once translated – did not go over well at all.

The King's expression became frigid, his anger apparent in its excess of deadly calm. Beside him Maeglin was the vision of a corpse – the loveliest corpse ever, Lucy was willing to admit – his guilty countenance replaced with visible stirrings of panic. The other elf lords were talking quietly amongst themselves, but there was a sense of trepidation to the air. A feeling of _violence_. Morwen was overtly upset. She shot Lucy a glance that translated to a muted plea for mercy and the unspoken desire for her to remain silent, but it didn’t work. Lucy was having a hard time concentrating again, as the blond-haired elf was staring at her. He'd never actually stopped. The ellon had the most straightforward gaze Lucy had ever seen, and surrounded by all that golden hair it made his melancholic expression rather heartbreaking. Rapunzel was one of the Beautiful People, only the elf didn't seem to have a filter to hide the ugliness, at least none that Lucy could discern. She couldn't see any rot.

The entire thing was unnatural, so she looked away. Rapunzel didn't. His staring actually got worse.

The King finally spoke, eying her with an intensity that he had not possessed before. Lucy chose to avoid his gaze, turning her head to instead look at Maeglin. She found him staring back, his expression indiscernible. Not once did they break eye contact as Turgon voiced his thoughts.

"The King asks how you know this." Morwen said, her voice wavering with something that sounded like fear. "He wants to know if this is what Sauron told you."

"No." said Lucy. "I read it. Tommy told me. But if you bring me the books, I can show you. There’s this place, called Beleriand? They talk about it in there. It's going to sink under the sea."

With that proclamation, the King seemed to lose his patience. His fingers clenched around the armrests of his chair, his jaw locking in anger as the elf lords around him resumed their chattering. When he spoke to a dark-haired ellon dressed in purple sitting several seats down, Turgon’s tone was unforgiving. After a brief conversation with the purple-robed lord, he turned towards the end of the chamber to look in the direction of the doors.

" **Calagor**!" he bellowed. From behind one of the pillars an ellon dressed in black and navy blue quickly stepped forward, striding across the room to the dais. There was a white bow strapped across his back. When he reached them he bowed low, his dark hair falling out from underneath his wide hood and his gray eyes over-bright.

"Nîn Aran." he said in a clear, even voice. It took Lucy a moment to realize that he was the archer who had found her. The one that had knocked her unconscious on the mountain slope.

The King and Calagor began talking. Morwen translated none of it, though her face grew paler and paler still. What seemed to follow was a series of witnesses, as each elf that had met Lucy was brought forward to give their testimonies. Slowly, Lucy's sense of wrongness grew. Anaduilin remained eerily calm when questioned, his back straight and expression blank, but the King became even more impatient. The only person they didn't summon was Limbrethil, and they didn’t bring out the books.

Lucy wondered at this, but said nothing. Every now and then she was asked a question by the King, which was translated haltingly through Morwen. They were simple questions, really, like the name of her parents and what tribe of _Edain_ she hailed from. Lucy answered them as best she could, curling up even further to try and negate her nausea. With each passing minute it became apparent that the idea that she wasn't from Middle-earth was something that the King couldn't process, or wasn't willing to consider. Rapunzel was still staring at her, and Lucy wished he would stop. The golden elf was squirming in his seat, alternating between slouching too low and sitting too straight, like an anxious child desperate to escape a meeting. Lucy was finding it hard to concentrate because of him, and the other elves were noticing, as well.

Eventually the Noldo prince looked towards the elf lord, his gray gaze hooded. Lucy could have sworn she saw one of his pointed ears twitch in annoyance.

"Glorfindel, lín iest na pent?" he asked the golden elf, who was in the middle of drumming his long fingers in agitation against his armrests. Lucy understood none of what the prince said, save for the name. Glorfindel. _Glorfindel_.

It was him. Tommy's sun god.

Immediately Lucy wished she were standing on the tallest tower she could find. She wished she were standing closer, so she could push him off of it. The minute the king finished speaking, Glorfindel started, pontificating to the Noldo prince with a voice that was clear and ringing as he gestured in Lucy’s direction.

Beside him, the black-haired elf cringed, leaning forward in his chair and making _shushing_ noises as he raised both his hands in the universal gesture for placation. The king glared at them both, his countenance frigid. Morwen leaned in close to Lucy's ear and nodded in Glorfindel's direction, speaking low as they watched the scene unfold.

"That is Glorfindel," she said quickly, eying the altercation with trepidation. "You see, the blond one? He is the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower."

"I know who he is." Lucy seethed, heedless of the consequences. Morwen looked at her in surprise.

"You do?"

"I do." Glorfindel was the reason Tommy never loved Lucy. The whole reason why she was here in the first place. For a brief, blinding second she was so angry with him she could barely speak, tripping over her already awkward words.

"I saw him." she said in a rush, while Glorfindel argued with the king. "I saw him from the time before. I know how he dies." Instantly Morwen began to panic, mimicking the black haired ellon beside Glorfindel as she tried to calm her down with gentle hands.

"Sweetness, remember what I said about speaking? Hush, let us not be so hasty –"

"A balrog kills him. A balrog comes to the city and burns it down. It takes Glorfindel with him. I see everything."

Morwen's look changed to one of horror.

At that moment Glorfindel said something that did not seem go over well with all involved, as the king went pale. Maeglin turned pink in the face and stood in a rush. Morwen wasn't paying any attention, so focused she was on Lucy. "A _balrog_?" she gasped.

Then, everyone was looking at Lucy.

If she were a wiser person – a less destructive person – Lucy would have known to quit before things got out of hand. She might have thought her next words through. But Lucy was awkward and unhinged, prone to saying the most inappropriate things at the most awful of times. She was horribly stressed out. Tommy was dead on the mountain, and Glorfindel was simply **sitting** there, a visible mockery of all she’d worked towards and failed to achieve. He didn't know how he'd stolen Tommy's heart from her without so much as a glance. How Tommy’s obsession with him had left her all alone. The knowledge of this was inconsolable.

Shaking from the stress, Lucy stood and raised her hand, pointing at the golden-haired elf lord. He turned to gaze at her head-on, watching her with bright blue eyes and slightly parted lips.

"You are Glorfindel?" Lucy asked, speaking loudly so all could hear. The ellon was so striking he hurt to look at; so utterly exquisite it bordered on unreal. He perked up at the sound of his name, his expression morphing to one of surprise.

"Lín istas nin?" he asked, and he sounded **so** hopeful. Morwen was still trying to quiet her. Lucy kept going.

"I know you," she said. "It's **your** fault I'm here. But you die, and the city burns. A balrog is coming for you. It's coming for you and it's going to kill you –"

And then, Lucy wasn't there.

Suddenly she was somewhere else, standing atop a cliff face where a waterfall had run dry. And far below her, nestled deep in a hidden valley, was Rivendell. _Tommy's_ Rivendell, with all its arches and spiraling smooth steps, only this one was decaying and abandoned, leeched of color. Around it the trees were dead and bare, their wood white as snow. On the air there was the smell of something burning, and overhead the sky was dark with ash.

A second before – even less than that – Lucy had been standing in the throne room of Gondolin, far away in time and space from anything that remotely resembled Rivendell. Yet she was here now, and the valley was dead. There was no Council sitting in twelve white chairs. No golden elf lord with ridiculously long hair begging mercy to the king, his face a mask of confusion.

Lucy was all alone atop a cliff-face, and she could feel **everything** , from the dirt beneath her toes to the way the airborne ash brushed against her skin. The air was thinner here, like most of the oxygen had been burnt away. Reeling and discombobulated, and unsure if what she was seeing was real, Lucy took a shaky step forward. One of her legs dipped beneath her weight as her muscles gave way, and she lost her balance.

Just as she was beginning to fall, there was a flash of washed-out yellow from somewhere down in the valley, followed by the sound of someone frantically screaming her name. 

“LUCY!” someone said, and their voice sounding very far away. Lucy didn’t answer.

Then suddenly, the world was shifting again, the ground twisting beneath her in a nebulous miasma before whiplashing back into a solid state. Instead of standing in Gondolin or atop a cliff face overlooking Rivendell, Lucy was in a room. A dark, cavernous room made entirely of black, with black iron floors against black iron walls, and tapestries with motifs of savage red eyes staring down at her.

Sitting in front of her there was a man. A juggernaut of a man hidden in shadow, save for the hint of molten orange eyes that glowed with their own liquid light. The man with eyes like magma let out a harsh gasp when he saw her standing there, quickly rising and striding towards her. He was all fire and flame and ruin, his voice booming as his black robes billowed around him.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" he demanded, so loudly the walls trembled. Lucy covered her ears to try and dispel the noise. Beneath her hands, her eardrums burst and bled. Everything was ringing. "WHERE DID YOU GO?" the man roared.

Lucy didn't have an answer for him. She whimpered and hunched in on herself. He was burning, so hot she could feel the heat coming off of him from over a dozen feet away. Then as he reached for her, time and space shifted again. She wasn't in the room anymore. Lucy was somewhere else.

She was standing on a narrow stone bridge, overlooking an endless mountain chasm. An old man in tattered gray robes and a pointed gray hat was standing in front of her. Beyond him there was a writhing mass of flames that screeched in fury as the stranger raised a pale sword high into the air.

"You cannot pass!" the man was yelling. "The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!"

And Lucy knew him.

She knew the name of the gray-hatted wizard; she knew the name of the bridge she was standing on and the mountain she was inside of, where Durin's people had dug too greedily and deep. She had seen it all in Tommy's movies, only it was real now, and the fire and heat were all around her. Behind her on the other side of the bridge there was frantic screaming, nearly drowned out by the roar of the flames. In front of her the wizard was still yelling. 

The flames surged forward, licking their way across mouth of the bridge. "You cannot pass!" Gandalf bellowed again, raising his staff and his sword. And then from the flames, **two** balrogs emerged instead of one, each belching fire and cracking whips.

It was over in an instant.

The first balrog took a step forward. Before Lucy could process what was happening, its giant foot was slamming downward, its massive hand reaching over to swipe the old wizard off the bridge and into its mouth, biting him in half. Behind Lucy there was a piercing wail – the scream of someone in the depths of despair – and it was only then that her brain abruptly shut down, her body shocked still in terror.

The second balrog gazed at Lucy with a strange sort of recognition, letting out a thunderous huff. Moments later it began lumbering forward, the stone bridge of Khazad-dûm shaking with each step it took. The creature moved with a confident, swaying gait, wings spread and horned head held high. When it got to Lucy, it stepped over her and continued walking, careful not to knock her off as it marched towards the rest of The Fellowship waiting on the other side. The first balrog followed the second, tossing aside Gandalf's remains as it stepped onto the bridge. Its fire lash twisted wildly around it, and when it passed the whip grazed by, so close that Lucy could feel the release of heat from it. Her hair spiraled around her with the sudden influx of air, her nightgown pressing against her legs.

Then, there was **burning**. Lucy could feel a scorching sensation all along her back where the whip had grazed her, the sting of flesh opening and parting from muscle and bone. She screamed.

When she did, the second balrog turned around and roared at the first, cracking its whip across its companion's face in what could almost pass for admonishment. Then time was shifting again, the world spiraling away.

When it solidified a second later, Lucy was once again in Gondolin.

She was back in the First Age, standing in the center of the room, her clothes blackened and falling off of her in pieces. The skin along her back was sliced open and covered in soot. The blood vessels in Lucy's eyes had burst to the point of turning red. She was shaking all over, her fingers curled into rigid hooks from the shock. Her nose was bleeding so profusely she was choking on the redness, the fluid streaming down her front to patter noisily against the pristine white floor.

Beside her Morwen collapsed, letting out a strangled sound of surprise. Everything was exactly as she’d left it, with the King perched upon his marble throne and Glorfindel's hands raised in gesture as he talked. The rest of the elf lords – with the exception of Maeglin – were still seated. All of them were looking at her, and Lucy was looking back. But she was shaking, and **shaking** , the shock and confusion wearing off to be replaced by blinding pain. All she could remember were shadows and flames spiraling around her; the dead Rivendell and the man with eyes like magma; the two balrogs that had crossed the bridge of Khazad-dûm instead of one.

Lucy coughed wetly, blood bubbling past her lips to trickle down her chin. Her hands remained locked in place. When she looked at Tommy's sun god, his expression was one of terror.

"I think I broke it." Lucy told him through a mouthful of blood. She wanted to say _time_ , but that seemed too severe.

Then she was falling, and Glorfindel was rushing forward to catch her before she hit the floor. Morwen was screaming, and the elf lords were all standing, drawing their swords and shouting curses. The Noldo prince was yelling orders to the guards. Lucy didn't care much at all.

She could feel her back burning, could smell her own flesh as it cooked and sizzled and boiled. Glorfindel was an odd combination of hardened armour and softened fabric as he caught her. Vaguely, Lucy noted that he was very warm and smelt like sunflowers.

From there on, all was chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Glorfindel finally makes an appearance! I know there's been a lot of OCs up until now, but the statistical odds of Lucy running into one of the main characters almost immediately were so remote that it felt like a cop-out to have it happen any sooner. A big thanks to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> REFERENCES
> 
> I avoid pulling quotes whenever possible, but in this case it was unavoidable. All lines for Gandalf are directly attributed to Peter Jackson's The Fellowship of the Ring. Referencing of lines will be kept to an absolute minimum in the future.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Pada – Walk
> 
> Laurëfindil, daro ha – Laurëfindil, stop it
> 
> Nîn Aran – My King
> 
> Glorfindel, lín iest na pent – Glorfindel, you wish to speak
> 
> Lín istas nin – You know me


	7. A Crown of Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 11, 2016

If Lucy had wanted to get the elves attention before, disappearing and then reappearing out of thin air covered in blood and burns was definitely the way to do it.

She hadn't wanted their attention, of course. Lucy had wanted Tommy, only Tommy, and for the malaise to finally end. It wasn't to be, it seemed. After the incident in the Council Chamber, the situation immediately got worse. There was screaming, which came from Morwen, and the sound of people shouting; the heavy _thud_ of gilded doors being slammed time and time again. Although Lucy's back had felt like it was on fire, it was now turning numb. The pain was leaving her, along with her other senses. She wasn’t entirely conscious, but she had enough sense to realize that she was wrapped in something warm and soft. When she was partially lifted off the ground, the world churned, the ceiling above her spinning as she lost her equilibrium.

Everywhere, there was smell of sunflowers and the color of gold. It was a thick yellow haze that obscured her vision, and Lucy alternated between wondering if it was a sea of flowers or the sun itself, as it was warm and smooth against her skin. Whatever was lifting her was extremely gentle, but she could hear the furious pounding of what sounded like someone's heart next to her ear. It wasn't until a hand cupped her face, holding her head steady as it lolled, that Lucy realized that some **one** was carrying her, and that someone was Glorfindel. The disappointment she felt upon discovering this fact was tangible. She wished it had been Tommy. That her best friend was still alive and with her.

In a brief moment where true consciousness returned, Lucy saw Glorfindel's golden hair absolutely everywhere, his face tilted towards hers as he watched her with an expression of poorly concealed alarm. He was murmuring incessantly, and soon Lucy realized that his softly spoken words were a failed attempt to keep her conscious. Every time she tried to fall asleep to numb the pain, the elf lord would shake her slightly, his tone becoming more frantic. There were guards dashing past them, escorting another elf lord from the room.

"Hana maer." Glorfindel was saying, his voice wavering as Lucy stumbled into some semblance of awareness. He gave her a tremulous smile, holding her close as he cupped her cheek to support her head. "Dartha echui. Innas ci dartha echui nin?" he asked.

Lucy was having a hard time seeing properly; her face felt sticky with blood, and she could see that Glorfindel's hand was red with it. His attention was focused on her in an awful, intense sort of way, and Lucy wanted to hate the elf, but she didn't have the energy for that at the moment. She didn't even have the energy to hate Maeglin. Distantly, she found herself wondering where he was.

"Glorfindel?" she managed to choke out. Lucy had been planning to tell him to stop staring – to give her more space – but her throat felt strange like it was full of fluid, and she couldn’t finish. Like before, Glorfindel reacted to his name, giving her a watery smile in return.

"Ah." he said, stroking his thumb across her cheek. Lucy didn't know if this was a proclamation of sorts, a single word, or just an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. There really was a lot of blood. Glorfindel was close enough that he’d gotten a smudge of it on his cheek, and he seemed visibly distressed by her injuries. Lucy didn't understand why he would be. There were more pressing concerns to deal with, like having two balrogs on the bridge of Khazad-dûm instead of one.

"You forgot to kill a balrog." Lucy warned him through a mouthful of red. It tasted bitter, and faintly reminiscent of iron. Glorfindel didn't have an answer for this, or at least none that Lucy could understand. He reacted poorly to the mention of balrogs however, standing abruptly and holding her close as he all but fled the room.

Lucy blacked out after that. It was a good three days before she regained consciousness.

* * *

Later, Lucy learned that Glorfindel had to be dragged away by the King himself to make him leave the dungeons. Lucy would have reveled at this sort of attention from someone she wanted, someone she **knew** – Tommy especially – but from him, and less than a day after meeting, the discovery was more than a little disturbing.

Lucy wasn't returned to her cell. She wasn't even taken back to the dungeons proper. She was transferred to another cell, larger than the last and shaped like a bunker; located several floors beneath the prison itself, where the roar of the ravine was absolutely deafening. Her cot was on a raised stone platform in the center of it, and around Lucy's ankle they attached a silver chain and manacle. Her status as an "ambiguously held captive" was upgraded to full-on prisoner. This time, Lucy’s imprisonment was under an army of healers, her door guarded by six gaolers at all times and the inside of her cell guarded by another seven. Her stunt in the Council Chamber had been enough to convince the elves that she was an imminent threat, but the nature of her disappearance seemed to imply that she wasn't to blame for it. As such, they tried to heal her.

The elves may have wanted to question her, and nothing more – Lucy knew she would’ve, after the incident – so their philanthropic nature was suspect. Even still, they stitched her up as best they could, treating her burns with a salve and wrapping a good part of her body in bandages. Once or twice Lucy woke to see Limbrethil and several elves she didn't recognize fussing over her wounds, but for the most part she remained unconscious. She was still too ill to eat, especially since she was injured, but Lucy was already exceptionally thin. Twice a day she was woken by Limbrethil, who spoon-fed her a type of gruel to keep her from starving. This routine remained a constant for the next week or so, although it only felt like several hours to Lucy.

One day, the routine changed. Lucy woke up, and her first conscious thought was to find herself lying flat on her stomach. Her back was wrapped in clean cotton bandages, her senses feeling thick from medication. Glorfindel was sitting on the floor beside her.

Glorfindel was not a subtle elf in anything he did, and later Lucy learned that despite his skill in battle, the ellon was very child-like in many ways: an odd juxtaposition for which he was somewhat infamous. At the moment, the elf lord’s head was tilted sideways so he could rest it on the cot. His unruly blond hair was spilling across the covers and over the floor in a wavy golden sheet. Glorfindel’s eyes were wide, his gaze disarming as he stared at her in a guileless manner. The elf lord was still dressed in his armor, but as Lucy stared at him in a sluggish stupor she was struck with the distinct impression that he wouldn't hurt a fly. There was no deception, nor any rot, but he was so lovely that he hurt to look at. Lucy found his appearance disquietingly unnatural.

_Too nice_ , she thought abstractly. _Too pretty. It's going to get him killed._

Glorfindel shifted against the covers when he caught her staring, never truly lifting his head off the cot. Lucy continued watching him, blinking slowly. Neither of them said anything for a moment, the roar of the nearby ravine filling up the silence. One of the elf lord's porcelain hands crept across the covers to rest beside his head, his milk-white fingers fiddling with the fabric. It seemed to be a nervous gesture he did when thinking.

"Suilad." he said eventually. The word was spoken hesitantly, and he sounded incredibly anxious. Glorfindel had a clear voice, musical and very expressive. Lucy didn't say anything back, other than a slurred "hello." She was still too tired.

After that, she fell asleep.

When Lucy woke next, it was to find the King seated on a nearby chair. Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen. The King of Gondolin was subdued that day, thoughtful looking and very severe. His ivory robes had been replaced by ones of navy blue and russet red, the collar tall and the sleeves of the outer garment voluminous and flowing. Standing on either side of the Noldo prince was a golden-helmed guard, and just behind the King, Morwen was seated with one leg crossed atop the other, her arm wrapped tight around her middle as if to contain a stomach-ache. She was dressed in purple again, her navy veil hanging heavy around her face.

Lucy felt a flash of fear mixed with revulsion as she thought of the wraith-like creature with Morwen's visage, but it quickly faded. When the King realized she was awake and staring, he began to speak. Morwen translated with a worn-out sort of trepidation that made it clear she would have preferred to be anywhere else but there.

"The King says he hopes you are feeling better. He wishes to ask how you feel."

Lucy blinked in reply, wondering if the comment had been made in jest. When Turgon met her gaze, she realized he wasn't joking.

"I've been better." she slurred, her voice thick with sarcasm. Morwen continued talking, but the King didn't speak.

"After they took you away, the King made me translate what it was you said to the Lord Glorfindel, and he was very upset. The elf lords were **all** upset, and everything was chaos. There is much concern among the Council. You disappeared and returned to us damaged, making your words seem true."

Again Lucy was hit with a wave of fear, but this one was more pervasive, tied to memories of fire and men with burning, magma-orange eyes. She shivered beneath her blankets, willing her sense of wrongness to dissipate. Lucy tried to tell herself that she was safe, that the monsters couldn’t reach her here, but the burns along her back and the bandages covering her limbs said otherwise. The elf king spoke then, clasping his hands in front of him. He had very elegant hands, the fingers long and the wrist exquisitely crafted to give the appearance of refinement and strength. Morwen began rubbing at her own wrists, alternating between that and picking at her nails.

"The King wishes to know – and he wants you to be truthful when you answer – if you were taken from the Council to be punished for speaking the truth."

Lucy didn't hate the King. At least, not yet. She could see his insides, and while Turgon seemed to be masking a deep-seated stubbornness, he otherwise appeared very bland. The elf was akin to an ice sheet; slow moving and slow to change, but prone to sudden streaks of activity when his immutable calm was disturbed. Tommy had mentioned nothing about a King named Turgon, however, so Lucy had no reason to distrust him. He was just another elf, and his question was utterly banal and harmless. Lucy responded as best she could.

"I don't work for Sauron," she whispered. When Morwen translated this to the Noldo prince, he drew in a deep breath through his nose and looked at Lucy with eyes that were heavy with disappointment. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t believe her, or thought she was being manipulated and was too young to understand. Lucy didn't blame him for his lack of confidence, but she was deeply annoyed by it. The fact that he thought she was unable to think for herself was almost insulting. Lucy was nothing if not brutally honest.

"I'm **not**." she insisted, in relation to the previous question. Her fingers curled weakly against the cover in irritation. "I just told Glorfindel how he was going to die. Then I went back to the future. There were two balrogs there. There should have been one." When this was translated, the King said something in a decidedly harsh manner. Morwen spoke again.

"You know Glorfindel." It was a statement.

Lucy – who was still too sluggish with sleep to realize there was something off about the wording – simply nodded her head against the cover, letting out a parched-sounding "Yes."

"You know what happens to the Lord Glorfindel? How he dies?"

Again Lucy nodded _yes_ , then added "He might not die the same way now, since I told you."

"And you know the fate of this city?"

"Yes." said Lucy. Her throat hurt from too much talking, like the inside of it had been charred from the hot influx of air. "I was telling you what happened before I went away. You wouldn't listen to me."

The King did not sigh when this was translated, but one of his hands did grip his navy-clad knee, the other rising to his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his large gray eyes, speaking slowly and with a weary sort of finality.

"The King apologizes for putting you in the dungeons when you are still healing." Morwen began. "But you carry dangerous knowledge that you cannot control. They have been talking, he and the Lords of Gondolin. They have decided that you **do** aid the enemy, but that you do not do so willingly. Still, they cannot let you go. This city –" and here Morwen paused, swallowing heavily as she listened to the King. "This city, no one must leave it, as it is a hidden city, but you especially cannot depart. You are a servant of the enemy, and a child with no one to care for you. They do not abandon children as such. There are so very few of them, now."

"So I'm a prisoner." Lucy said mechanically, by way of confirmation. She really didn't care that much at the moment. Morwen relayed this to the King, and he answered easily, his brows drawing together into a frown.

"You are an orphan, so you are a Ward of the King. It is what happens to children before they are adopted into a Noldorin house. The King does not wish to keep you in the dungeons, but he has no choice. It is too dangerous to put you in the children’s home with the others. The King also wishes to know what is written in your books and your scrolls, but he does not want to cause another…” Here Morwen paused, her lips twisting uncomfortably. “Another _event._ ” she settled on. “He apologizes, but for now you must be kept here, where it is safe. Later, they will decide what to do with you.”

Turgon paused then, and Morwen paused with him. When the woman spoke again, her tone was tired and unenthusiastic, as if she’d been asked the question before.

"The King wishes to know if you would like to speak with the Lord Glorfindel."

Lucy was too out of it to put two and two together. The question confused her. "Why would I want to speak with **him**?"

Morwen shrugged, and did not translate. "I do not know. I believe he wishes to speak with you."

Lucy did not like this prospect, and frowned heavily, her thin fingers curling tightly against the covers. She wanted nothing to do with Tommy's sun god. She wished he didn't exist.

"I don't want to speak to him," she slurred. "Too tired." And she **was** tired, but in hindsight it was obvious that Morwen had misinterpreted her intentions. She translated her words to the King, who'd been waiting patiently. As Morwen explained Lucy's predicament he nodded in understanding and let out a sigh, rubbing at his brow with a slender hand.

"The King says he and the other lords will return once you are feeling better. He will tell Glorfindel that he must visit another day. When they reconvene, they will discuss what to do with you."

"I thought we already **did** that." Lucy said, feeling churlish, but most of her words were spoken too softly, so the woman ignored them. The King stood, turning around with his guards to exit the room. One of the gaolers remained behind, as Morwen didn't follow him.

When the King was gone, the older woman hunched in on herself, rubbing at the wrist of her left hand. She looked upset, and Lucy wondered if she was the cause.

"Are you mad at me?" Lucy asked.

Morwen didn't look up. "Yes." she bit out. Lucy hadn't expected her to be honest, and when she was it left her blinking in shock.

"Really?" she said in surprise. Morwen looked at her, then gestured helplessly around the room. When she spoke her tone was bitter.

"I had a life, yes?" she said. "I had my family, my sons. But these Noldor, they come and they threaten. The come and they colonize, and they tell everyone else that their ways are wrong. High elves, they call themselves! As if there is anything noble about them." Morwen let out a desperate laugh, rubbing more frantically at her wrist.

"These Noldor, they never see us. But then they come to **my** land, **my** people, and say _look, a child. We have a small child, she is very sick and we cannot understand_. And when my people say _no,_ because it is too dangerous to travel, they say I must go anyways, or they will take me by force. They take everything by force, these Noldor, with their swords and their oaths and their pride. And so I come, hoping to help, but there is no child here. There is a woman, and she listens to nothing I say and makes everything worse. Now I cannot go back. I can never go back, because they wish to keep you here. They wish to keep Gondolin a secret, and we are trapped in this city and I know no one. How would –” Morwen’s voice cracked, her words thick with emotion. “How would **you** feel, if you were taken?"

If Lucy had been a kinder person, she would have felt camaraderie with Morwen; maybe even empathy for the woman's plight. Lucy wasn't however, and as it stood she was ill and aching, which made her lack of empathy worse. All she could think about was that she **did** know how it felt, because she'd been lost and captured too. Tommy had **died**.

"But I do know." Lucy argued. Morwen sniffled slightly, rubbing at her eyes with a delicate gesture of her hand. She angled her head away from Lucy, as if afraid she would see her crying. A moment later she stood in a swirl of skirts.

"I am sorry." she said thickly. "I am tired. Very tired, and it is shameful. You will forgive me if I leave. I will return soon." Then she left.

Lucy didn't try to stop her.

* * *

After the impromptu meeting, Lucy dreamed. In her cell, there was nothing but the guards and the roar of the ravine, muffled by the mountain of blankets that Limbrethil had piled around her. Her skin felt uncomfortably raw and tight across her back, and none of these factors were conducive for staying conscious.

Lucy didn't dream often. She was not a creative person by nature, and her nights were full of nothingness; of a blackness that persisted from the time she closed her eyes to the time when she jolted awake. When Lucy did dream, it was always in monochrome. Often it was of mundane things, like sitting in a rickety wooden chair in the middle of an empty room, or watching a clock tick down the seconds upon a paint-chipped wall as she waited for an event that never happened. This dream was different in that it seemed very real, however, but Lucy knew it was a dream because Tommy was there, and Tommy had been dead for quite some time.

Lucy was in a garden of sorts, filled with giant mushrooms and eight-foot tall flowers. She was sitting at a marble table, dressed in her old school uniform, and there were several other people sitting with her. Tommy was there. There was blood matting her hair, and one side of her skull was completely caved in, just like it’d been on the mountain. Everything was stained in vivid technicolor, too bright and over-saturated.

"Tea?" Tommy asked with a voice that didn't sound like hers, holding out a delicate teapot the color of buttercups with tiny red roses painted along the center. As she leaned forward to pour Lucy a cup, there was a soft splattering sound, and Lucy watched as a chunk of Tommy's brains dribbled out onto the pristine white tablecloth, all pink and gelatinous.

"Tommy," said Lucy. "Tommy, you got brains on the table."

"Oh, don't worry about that." said Tommy with a benign chirp, sounding very much alive when she was supposed to be dead. "Glorfindel will clean it up." The girl looked across the table, and Lucy turned to see the see the golden-haired elf lord sitting beside them. "Won't you, my darling? You like fixing things." Tommy cooed, then smiled at Lucy. "He always cleans stuff up. He likes the mess."

Glorfindel was dressed in ivory, and wearing what looked like a crown of thorns. There were bugs in his crown; giant black beetles that were impaled upon the spikes, and they were writhing. The elf lord was picking at the tablecloth in distress, and there was a sharp looking knife clutched tight in his white-knuckled hand. Lucy didn't know why he was there, but she resented him for it. When Tommy handed her a teacup, she didn't drink from it, choosing instead to glare at the ellon as she gripped the armrests of her chair.

"You shouldn't hate him, you know." Tommy said in a very un-Tommy-like manner. "It wasn't his fault. He's a sweetheart." Glorfindel looked up at this, fiddling with the tablecloth in the same way that he’d fiddled with Lucy's bed sheet. His expression was haunted.

"I did not know," he said in English, and there was an edge of hysteria to his voice. "I did not – no one told me. You were not supposed to tell me!"

"Hush, Darling." Tommy said, leaning over to pour him a cup of tea and getting more brains on the table. "Have something to drink. It will calm your nerves."

"He's not your Darling." Lucy snapped, unable to take it anymore. She dug her fingers into the armrests so hard her nails cracked and bled. "I'm your darling, your Lucy Darling. I **told** you."

"Oh, Lucy." said Tommy sadly, patting her thin hand with her dead one. Her flesh was tinged with blue and rot. "You were always so selfish."

There was a clattering noise across the table. Both girls turned to see Glorfindel clawing at the crown on his head, trying to get it off. It wasn't budging, and the more he tugged at it the more his beautiful hands bled, ripped apart by the thorns. It was only then that Lucy realized the crown was nailed to his skull. The golden-haired elf lord was hyperventilating. She could almost taste his panic.

"Glorfindel, Darling." said Tommy in her un-Tommy-like manner, setting down the teapot and taking a dainty sip of her tea as if she were a boarding school matron. "You need to calm down. Remember what I told you? It isn't real." The jagged edge of her skull glistened red in the daylight.

"I am choking." Glorfindel sobbed as he clawed at his head to no avail, dropping his knife to tug at the crown with both his hands. "I am choking. I did not know. Make it stop." Vaguely, Lucy decided he sounded strange when he spoke in English. He didn't have an accent. _But then_ , she supposed, _this is a dream._

"That's your head, Darling. Not your throat." said Tommy helpfully, not being helpful at all when she went back to sipping at her tea. "Remember to breathe."

"You didn't tell him anything." Lucy said suddenly, with vehemence. Tommy was ignoring her again, and Lucy hated being ignored. " **I** did. You never met him. You died before we got there."

Tommy looked up and through her. Her eyes were dull. "You're right." she said slowly, her teacup stilled in her hand. In the background, Lucy could still hear Glorfindel's panicked muttering. "This was my world. My place, and you stole it from me. You're the one who's supposed to be dead."

"No I didn't!" Lucy countered, angry and upset and wishing she was awake, because this wasn't fun at all and she wanted Tommy to be quiet. She loved her and she hated her and she hated that she couldn't have her, and the one that **did** have Tommy's affections was currently clawing at his head as he crumbled to pieces under an impromptu breakdown.

"Tommy wouldn't say that." Lucy told her. "Tommy had me. Only me. She needed **me**. You aren't Tommy."

"That was your fault," said the Not-Tommy, and Lucy felt cheated. "It was your fault. You poison things. You poison people. You make them think there's only you."

"I love you." Lucy said on a warble, trying to hold back her sobs. Even though it was a dream, it was the first time she'd been able to see Tommy in over a month, and Tommy still didn't want her. "I love you. I told you I loved you so many times, and you ignored me."

"Lucy," said Glorfindel suddenly, his voice cracking as he wrapped his hands around the spiny crown, squishing beetles beneath his bleeding palms. "Lucy, it hurts. Make it stop."

"Shut up." Lucy snapped. "Shut up. I don't want to see you."

And then suddenly, it wasn't Tommy sitting across from her anymore, but Maeglin. Maeglin, with his beautiful black clothes and beautiful black hair and big black doe eyes that were dead and hard as stones. He held Tommy's teacup in his hands, never drinking from it. His voice was drawling and distant.

"She never loved me either," he said. Lucy grimaced.

“Who would?” she spat.

There was another crash, and both of them turned to see Glorfindel scrabbling with bloody hands across the table for his knife, begging Lucy for forgiveness and pleading for oblivion. His face was wet with tears. "You were not supposed to tell me." he sobbed as he finally managed to grab the blade. "I cannot do it. I will not. It hurts. Lucy, where did you go?"

"You should stop him." Maeglin warned.

"Why don't you?" Lucy countered. The dark elf shrugged. As he did so, Glorfindel slashed the knife sideways across his neck; cutting his own throat so quickly all Lucy could do was twitch in surprise as a spray of blood splattered across her face. He collapsed face first onto the table.

"I hate him too." was Maeglin's response.

Then Lucy woke up, flexing her hands into the nondescript covers. She let out a convulsive sigh.

She was alone in her bed, the roar of ravine echoing beneath her. The dream had seemed so real, but she knew it was a lie. Glorfindel wasn't there, and neither was Tommy. It wasn't fair. Lucy wanted to find Gandalf so she could go home, but she couldn’t. Her lack of freedom made her bitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Hana maer – Its alright/good
> 
> Dartha echui. Innas ci dartha echui nin – Stay awake. Will you stay awake for me
> 
> Suilad – Hello/greetings


	8. Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 21, 2016

Lucy was determined to get out of the dungeons.

She was still sick and injured and far too thin, but the more time progressed, the more she felt herself being overtaken by a helpless sense of anger. Lucy was angry with Tommy for dying on her when she needed her the most. She was angry with Limbrethil, for treating her like a baby. She was angry with Morwen and she was angry with Maeglin and she was angry with the King, and she was especially angry with Glorfindel, as Tommy’s obsession with him was where this whole damn thing had started.

Lucy hated Middle-earth, or what little she’d seen of it. She hated Gondolin, with its stupid white walls and its stupid white towers and its mildewing dungeons, where the air was too thick for her to breathe properly. She had known. She had always known, even before they’d jumped, that Tommy’s plan wouldn’t have worked. If they **really** wanted to die, they needed a taller tower from which to hurtle from, but Lucy had said nothing because Tommy had been dead-set on Middle-earth and becoming a prophet.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she’d asked, but in hindsight Lucy knew that Tommy had misunderstood her words. It was that awful shortcoming of hers: her absolute inability to say the right things when they mattered the most. And now she was stuck here, and Tommy wasn’t. At best, Lucy felt like an intruder.

Sitting on her stone bed, swathed in blankets from head to toe, she grit her teeth and cast a surreptitious glance towards the door. She was chained, but the urge to bolt still persisted. If the guards in her cell took note of her gaze, they hid their interest, but Lucy could sense a _disquiet_ in the air, an almost tangible miasma of tightness that coiled itself beneath her breastbone. Something was wrong and had been for weeks, and the more she focused on the feeling the greater her apprehension grew. It wasn’t the bone chilling terror she’d experienced on the bridge of Khazad-dûm, or the sudden shock she’d felt when she witnessed Morwen’s face melting into a wraith’s. It was deeper and more pervasive, and inextricably linked to her understanding that something had changed.

Before, the elves had treated Lucy with caution and more than a little distrust, but there had been a laissez faire attitude in their actions towards her; the belief that time was on their side. Now they were focused on her in a way that was downright unnerving, but the sense of wrongness she felt came from more than just that. Lucy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was as if something in the air had changed, as if the fabric of the world had ripped apart and then remade itself when she’d broken some unspoken timeline. She had to get out. An inkling of impending doom was driving her.

Hunching slightly beneath the pool of her covers, Lucy drew out her foot to examine the silver chain that was wrapped around her ankle. The manacle was light, all things considered. The elves had made sure it wasn’t too tight, but the purpose of the device was clear: she was their prisoner, and she wasn’t leaving. Attached to the cuff was a thin silver chain small enough to fit into her palm, running across the bed and onto the floor. Chafing against the weave of her bandages, Lucy leaned forward, tugging on the chain to pull it up and see where it ended. When the chain grew taut after several feet of length and she still couldn’t find it, Lucy surmised it was linked to the floor somewhere close to the base of her bed. She tugged on the chain again, trying to see if the links were malleable, but even if she hadn’t been weak from her prolonged illness, they wouldn’t have broken. The device was thin, but absurdly strong. Lucy coughed, sniffling slightly. The persistent, low-grade chill had never left her, and she was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

Surreptitiously she looked towards the nearest guard, who was standing in a corner of her cell by the door. Twitching her foot, Lucy picked up her chain and rattled it in his direction.

“Can you unchain me?” she asked him point blank. There was no use at her playing with any sort of subterfuge. The guard didn’t answer her, and the others didn’t acknowledge her, which wasn’t surprising. She spoke louder this time, undeterred.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” Lucy declared. She didn’t, but this statement didn’t get a rise out of them either. Still, she didn’t give up.

Over the next several hours, and then days, she tried all sorts of petty tricks to try and get the guards to start talking; throwing off her blankets to force them to return them to her, or kicking up a fuss and pretending to suffer from nightmares, to see if they would call for some high-ranking official to deal with her outburst. They never did. In all but the most extreme of circumstances, the guards ignored her, and not once did they signal for backup. A few days later, Lucy gave up on trying to use the gaolers in her haphazard escape plan. None of them had the keys, anyways, and they weren’t her only option. There were other elves that were more receptive to her plight.

Lucy set her sights on someone higher.

* * *

The first person Lucy tried to con into her escape was Limbrethil.

The elleth had been in to see her every day, but for the most part Lucy had been asleep or too out of it to acknowledge that the slender elf was there. When she **had** been awake, it was to talk to the King or cajole the guards. As such – when she confronted Limbrethil three weeks after the council incident – it was the first time in a long while that the two of them had met face to face, with both parties awake and conscious.

Lucy was not subtle about her intentions.

“I want to leave,” she told the black-eyed elleth as she entered the heavily fortified cell. Limbrethil looked up as Lucy spoke, smiling happily when she saw that she was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. The elleth looked harried that morning, her hair hastily drawn back into a messy braid that began at the base of her neck. The guards seemed to be on edge, too, further adding to Lucy’s sense of wrongness.

Morwen wasn’t with Limbrethil. This was a problem, but she remained resolute.

“Limbrethil, I feel better.” Lucy said, swinging her legs and picking at her bandages as the elleth came to stand in front of her. She found the elves reacted more positively when she said their names, so she did it as often as possible. Lucy held out her arm, pointing to the door. “Tell them to let me out,” she said.

As expected Limbrethil reacted positively to her name, leaning down and planting a quick kiss in greeting against the side of her temple. Afterwards, she smoothed aside her hair with her hand. The elleth liked touching Lucy’s hair, and the Noldor in general seemed more physically affectionate than their Sindar brethren; prone to clapping each other on the back in casual greeting, or squeezing shoulders in camaraderie when they thought she wasn’t looking. Limbrethil had a large pack akin to a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, which Lucy eyed while the elf greeted the guards. When the elleth put it on the bed so she could check her bandages, Lucy let the elleth fuss over her as she pleased so she could rifle shamelessly through her backpack. There wasn’t much there in the way of contents that interested her; rolls of bandages and gauze, and that strange green goo that they put on her wounds that smelt faintly of rosewater. Lucy spied a clean linen nightgown for her to wear, for which she was happy, and another pair of baby booties, for which she was **not**. There were also bottles of medicinal potions tucked away in a corner that she knew would taste just awful, but she saw no key.

Without hesitation, Lucy reached over and began patting down Limbrethil’s sides, digging her fingers into the dress pockets near the elf’s hips as she went looking for the key chain. Limbrethil let out an undignified squeak of surprise, then sighed in exasperation when it became clear what Lucy was searching for. She forced her hands back into her lap, her expression stern.

"Baw." she said sharply, making Lucy sit still. "Havant en. Na maer." Limbrethil then went back to checking her bandages. The minute she did so, Lucy began squirming, re-digging through the contents of Limbrethil’s pack with determination.

“Where’s your key?” Lucy asked as she rooted through the pockets of the messenger bag, her fingernails coming back embedded with tiny balls of lint. Her nails were far too long, and would have to be trimmed soon or risk breaking.

"Havant en." was Limbrethil's response as she forced Lucy back into a position where she could easily check her bandages. It was then that Lucy was struck with a momentary flash of inspiration. Noldor liked babies, Morwen had told her, and Limbrethil was happier when she played the child. At the moment, Lucy was willing to act like a child for **years** if it would get her what she wanted. She held out her arms to Limbrethil, as if asking to be picked up.

“I want to go for a walk.” she said, swinging her feet in a petulant manner. The bed was far too big for her. “Take me outside.”

On most people, this would have worked. Lucy was not naturally precocious, but she **was** pretty and could look exceptionally delicate when she wanted to, which made certain types of people prone to fawning over her. Limbrethil was not one of them. She may have loved children, and she may have babied Lucy as a result, but she’d been around her long enough to know that she was up to no good. She sent her a warning glance as a result.

"Baw _._ " she said, her hands on her hips. Lucy knew that the word meant _no_.

" _Yes_." she replied in elvish, holding out her arms. It was another basic word she’d picked up, and she planned to use it. “Lucy walk.” She demanded in English.

Limbrethil looked simultaneously thrilled that Lucy was speaking in Sindarin, but disappointed that she was using it for unscrupulous gains. She shook her head, unmoved by her innocent pout or limpid eyes.

“Baw.” she repeated, and that was the end of that. Lucy went out of her way to be as difficult as possible for the rest of the meeting.

* * *

The trick worked on Anaduilin, surprisingly enough. Out of all the elves she had met so far, Lucy would have never of guessed it.

She hadn’t seen the fine-boned, pale-haired ellon in quite some time, and when he arrived Lucy wasn’t expecting him. He no longer came to her cell every day to make her read Tommy’s books, and if he’d come to see her after the incident in the Council Chamber, it had definitely been while she was unconscious.

It was just Anaduilin and two of his guards that day, accompanied on his left by Morwen. The woman was dressed in a pale lavender gown done up in an elvish style that contrasted sharply with her sun-browned skin. Lucy wasn’t ashamed to admit that she was surprised to see her. She hadn’t thought that Morwen would return so quickly after her outburst, during which time she’d grown frustrated and left. Even still, she was glad the woman had returned, although _pleased_ might have been the better descriptor. Enough time had passed that Lucy was no longer afraid of Morwen’s face, but the truth of the matter was that having the woman there to translate made her escape plans – what little there was of them – that much easier.

Anaduilin was as withdrawn as ever, although the outside weather must have been warmer, as the clothes he was wearing were not as thick and voluminous. He had donned a thin tunic, the collar wide and dragging in a straight line across his shoulders. Lucy could actually see his neck, slender and delicate as the rest of him. His skin was so pale that it blended into the wisps of his hair.

“How are you, Sweetness?” Morwen asked somewhat nervously, breaking the silence first. She lifted up the front of her lavender skirt to keep herself from tripping over the edge while she walked slowly into the room. As she did so she ducked her head, avoiding Lucy’s gaze. The woman seemed determined to pretend that the argument between them had never happened, and Lucy was perfectly content to let her do so. Things were easier that way.

“Fine.” she told Morwen, then added “I can breathe better.” Lucy turned to look at Anaduilin, who had been watching them with a blank expression. Unceremoniously, she held out her arms to him as she had done with Limbrethil, playing the child as she absently swung her feet back and forth over the edge of the bed.

“I want to go for a walk,” she told him.

Lucy didn’t know if he had the keys yet, but he was the prison warden, so it made sense that Anaduilin might. When Lucy said this, Morwen looked at her with a mild expression of disapproval – as if she knew what she was up to – before turning to the ellon, translating what Lucy had said. Anaduilin listened, then turned and said something to one of the guards, who nodded briefly and stepped out of the room. The warden turned back and began to approach, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small silver key on a chain.

Lucy’s eyes went wide. She’d been so sure he wouldn’t do it she let her shock get the best of her. She spoke before she could think.

“Keys. You have the keys!” Lucy said, dropping her hands into her lap before raising them again, fingers grasping. “I want the keys!”

"Sweetness, do not ruin it." Morwen warned. Lucy screwed her lips into a pout, but stayed silent, squirming slightly in her seat as Anaduilin approached. The silver-haired ellon knelt in front of her and lifted her chained foot; his hand cupping the entirety of her heel as he inserted the key into the manacle and unlocked the device with a soft _click_. The Sinda’s fingers were cool against her skin as he removed the chains, and the bottom of Lucy’s foot was ticklish. She twitched at his touch, leaning forward to watch him work.

As he freed her ankle, Anaduilin’s braid of silver hair fell forward. Lucy remembered how soft it was, and had to consciously remind herself not to reach over and touch it. Her internal voice wasn’t that strong, however.

"Sweetness, no touching." Morwen reminded her sharply. It was only then that Lucy realized that she'd been reaching out subconsciously to fiddle with the strands. She fisted her hands in her lap, leaning back as Anaduilin lowered her foot and stood to his full height as he re-pocketed the key. Lucy eyed the gesture with naked hunger. If Anaduilin noticed, he made no indication of it. His expression was characteristically blank, but there was no annoyed clenching of his jaw, and he wasn't biting the inside of his cheek. Lucy took this to mean that he was in a good mood. It was a promising sign.

“Am I allowed to go for a walk now?” she asked. Morwen shrugged, using her polished fingernails to scratch at her collarbones, where a wisp of dark hair had fallen. “I am not sure.” She admitted, then translated this to the warden. Anaduilin spoke in a soft, even manner as he gripped Lucy’s forearm and helped her off the bed. Lucy gripped him in turn, to steady herself. Her legs were stronger this time. “Anaduilin says the King has not _disapproved_ of you moving about, so long as you are accompanied.” Morwen informed her. “Anaduilin, he bade me tell you that you are allowed to walk, but it must be with him, and only in the dungeons. You must behave, or you will not be let out again. No wandering.”

Lucy didn’t like this rule, but she didn’t hate it either. She was feeling childish, however, and very antsy. A bored Lucy was a Lucy prone to misbehaving.

“Can I hold his hand?” she asked, gripping the fabric of the warden’s sleeve as she craned her neck to look at him. Anaduilin was looking elsewhere.

"Lucy –" Morwen sighed, clearly exasperated.

"Can I?" she persisted.

Morwen translated this with visible reluctance. As she did so Anaduilin's hand tightened ever so slightly around Lucy’s arm, and he bit the inside of his cheek. _Ah,_ Lucy thought. _There it is_. He was annoyed again. She liked the familiarity of the gesture.

Lucy did not get to hold Anaduilin’s hand when they left the room. She did get to walk near him, though, as the ellon had been serious when he’d said that she needed to stay within arm’s reach. The silver-haired Sinda kept one hand on Lucy’s back as they walked, partially to make sure she didn’t fall flat on her face, but mostly to ensure that she didn’t make an untimely dash down the hallway. Lucy was just glad to be up and moving. She wasn’t out of the dungeons yet, but for the moment she was content to meander along the hallway on unsteady legs, glancing surreptitiously at the exits to try and plot her escape. There weren’t that many within the dungeon itself, and those that Lucy did see were too heavily guarded. Briefly, she contemplated throwing herself into the ravine if she could find a nearby opening, but she wasn’t the greatest swimmer, and she didn’t know where the waterway led. More and more, it was looking like she would need to rely on someone else to get her out of the dungeons. Tommy had said elves moved too quickly for her to outrun them, so escaping through one of the checkpoints was out of the question.

Thinking of Tommy brought a sharp twinge of pain to her chest. Lucy thought of her dream, where her best friend’s brains had dripped like goo onto the pristine white tablecloth; how Glorfindel had slit his throat in a spray of bright red blood. Suddenly and inexplicably paranoid, Lucy looked behind them and to the sides, searching for a flash of gold. There was none.

“Do you know what’s going to happen to me?” she asked Morwen, scuffing the soles of her feet against the floor. When she wobbled a bit from the movement, Anaduilin immediately pressed his hand against her back to keep her steady. Morwen kept her gaze focused on the ground to make sure she didn’t trip over the hem of her own skirt.

“You are not leaving,” she said with finality. “Myself, I am not so sure. But you? You will never escape. These Noldor, I do not think they will forget what you did.”

“Are they going to kill me?” Lucy asked conversationally, looking at a nearby exit. It was guarded, like all the others.

“No.” Morwen said, shaking her head. “They need someone to translate the books. But you are a child to them, yes? A pretty child. Even if they did not need your help, they would not wish you harm. I think they are looking to place you somewhere safe; a spot that will not put the rest of the city in danger.”

“I am not dangerous.” Lucy declared, without irony. Morwen seemed to choke on thin air in shock. Her expression was incredulous.

“You disappeared, and then you came back. Your clothes were burnt and your eyes were red. You were crying blood. Not dangerous, you say? I do not think so. I know you are not a child.”

“Are my eyes still red?” Lucy asked. She reached up to gently pad the skin around them, then realized she hadn’t seen herself in a mirror for months. Morwen shook her head.

“No.”

“I met the balrogs.” Lucy continued, completely forgetting the King’s rule of do-not-mention-the-future-for-fear-of-transporting. “That’s why I was burnt. Glorfindel forgot to kill one of them."

Morwen looked up at this. Her profile was elegant in the low light, but unlike their first meeting the woman was more subdued; less animated, like Limbrethil had been, and slightly disquieted. It convinced Lucy even more that something was wrong aboveground. "The Lord Glorfindel wishes to see you." Morwen said. Lucy was repulsed by this idea, and suddenly she was glaring at the shadows with renewed paranoia. She let her distaste show on her face.

"I don't want to speak to Rapunzel." She spat.

Morwen's expression was one of confusion. " _Rapunzel_?" she asked, mangling the sound of the foreign word. Lucy gestured absently to her own head.

"You know, his hair. He has long hair, and it's blond. Like Rapunzel's."

"This Rapunzel, I do not know what it is."

"Rapunzel is a princess."

“The Lord Glorfindel is certainly not a princess, and I do not think he is a prince, either. He is a soldier, though, the Captain of the City Guard, and a Lord. A very rich lord, they are telling me. They say he is very brave and kind. He is worried about you.”

"I don't care. I still don't want to talk to him." Lucy declared, scuffing her foot so violently against the ground she stubbed her toe and lost her balance. Anaduilin quickly leaned forward and righted her, keeping his hand on her back. "I want to see Tommy." she added. "I was supposed to see her body. When can I see the body?"

Morwen shrugged.

"I do not know." she admitted. "Things have changed."

There was no more talk of Glorfindel or Tommy, for which Lucy was grateful. Soon they finished their lap of the dungeons. Morwen seemed ready to call it a day, but Lucy had been stationary for so long that she was desperate to move, even if it was only in circles. When she asked for a second lap, Anaduilin agreed. Halfway through, however – just as they were passing by a large set of stairs – they ran into Maeglin. He appeared out of the darkness like a living shadow, all silky black hair and big black eyes and snow white skin that was so reminiscent of Lucy’s dream that she almost asked him where he’d placed his teacup.

Maeglin stopped short upon seeing Lucy in the hallway, his lips twisting into a grimace of distaste. Then he turned to Anaduilin, snapping out a question in a harsh tone that made it clear that he was very displeased with the warden. Lucy turned to Morwen, who was watching the conversation in silence.

“What’s he saying?” Lucy asked.

“He wants to know why you are out of your cell.” Morwen replied in a hushed tone. “Anaduilin, I think he was supposed to ask permission of the Lord Maeglin first, not the King.”

Lucy turned back to eye the elf lord with interest, and suddenly she was struck with the urge to say something very stupid. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. “Maeglin.” She said, taking a step forward and reaching out to tug on the edge of his tunic. “Maeglin, I have to talk to you.”

"Lucy!" Morwen said in a hissing whisper, looking horrified. "Lucy, stop it!"

Maeglin grit his teeth as Lucy touched him, never stopping in his conversation with Anaduilin as he reached down to remove her hands from his shirt. His jaw was tense, his gaze purposely averted from hers, his entire body stiff like a sheet of cardboard. He looked wholly uncomfortable with her proximity.

When the ellon tried to disentangle their hands, Lucy kept a death grip on his fingers, refusing to let go.

“Maeglin, pay attention.” she demanded. Every time she said his name, the ellon’s right ear would twitch, as if possessed by a nervous tick. Anaduilin was glaring at Lucy too, but he made no move towards her in front of his lord. Morwen seemed ready to die from second-hand embarrassment. Lucy was thrilled. Maeglin was so easy to annoy that she was actually enjoying herself. He was fun.

Then she saw it; a flash of gold, just around the corner and up the stairs from the same direction that Maeglin had emerged. It was the gold that she’d been dreading for weeks, the one that had been haunting her. Quickly Lucy stepped out of view from the stairs, trying to drag the elf lord with her. He didn’t budge.

"Maeglin, mellon nîn!" Glorfindel called out, before there was a slight commotion on the stairs. Lucy heard the tell-tale shuffle of the guards moving to cut him off. Dutifully the blond-haired elf halted, and Lucy listened with trepidation as he talked to the gaolers. His voice was slightly clipped with an anxious sort of impatience. Anaduilin gave no reaction to Glorfindel’s sudden appearance, but Maeglin’s jaw tensed, his eyes closing briefly as if fighting off an oncoming headache. Lucy took note of it, and decided to use it. She tugged on Maeglin’s hand to get his attention.

“Hide me,” she said. Tommy may have hated Maeglin, but Tommy wasn’t there. Maeglin looked down at her with a bland expression, before glancing towards the stairwell and then back to Anaduilin. He began speaking quietly to the warden.

“Tell him.” Lucy said to Morwen, refusing to let go of Maeglin’s hands when he tried to extricate himself a second time. “Tell him I’m feeling sick. Tell him I want to go back.”

Morwen seemed confused by Lucy’s insistence, but translated the words all the same. When she did so, Maeglin turned to Lucy once more. She was so adverse to the thought of seeing Glorfindel that she was beginning to panic, and it was making her reckless. All he would have to do was come down the stairs and turn the corner, and he would find her.

“Maeglin?” the golden elf called out as he began walking towards them, a slight note of confusion to his voice when Maeglin didn’t respond. Lucy gripped Maeglin’s hand hard.

"Please." she whispered. She knew Glorfindel could probably hear her, but she didn't care. "Please, hide me."

A moment passed: a moment in which Lucy looked at Maeglin and Maeglin looked at Lucy, and they understood each other to a certain degree. Then the dark-haired ellon turned to Anaduilin, saying something that caused Morwen to let out a startled huff. Afterwards he stepped backwards, taking one last look in their direction before striding away to meet Glorfindel. Anaduilin took Lucy back to her cell.

When they arrived the warden reattached her chain. Lucy was so grateful to be away from Glorfindel that she didn’t even care that she was right back where she’d started. Once the Sinda left she buried herself beneath the covers, huddling into a ball so tight her bandages chafed against her still healing back. Half an hour later, her door creaked open. Lucy tensed up, but when she heard a soft, drawling voice speaking to the guards, she realized it was Maeglin. The elf lord managed to convince all but two of the gaolers to leave them alone, and after they left he walked over to her cot. Lucy didn’t poke her head out from underneath the covers until she felt him sit down on the bed. The ellon was seated at the foot of it, but facing outwards, staring blankly at the wall with his elbows resting on his knees and his lovely white hands clasped together. His long hair was drawn over shoulder to reveal his neck and expose his ear. Maeglin’s ears were longer than most of the Noldor, and even though his shoulders were broad, he was thin. He had their characteristically straight nose, the same high cheekbones and full bottom lip, but the shape of his eyes was markedly different. He almost reminded her of Anaduilin.

_Is he even Noldo?_ Lucy wondered absently. The thought hadn't occurred to her before, mostly because Maeglin was an elf lord and this was a Noldor city, but now she was curious.

Slowly Lucy shuffled upright on the bed, wrapping her blankets around her shoulders as she scooted forward to sit beside him. There was still an element of anxiety she held towards him – of Tommy’s hate, transferred onto her – but it was muted now, tempered by more immediate concerns. She drew her legs to her chest and rested her head on her knees.

“Thank you, for today.” she said. Lucy wasn’t used to saying _thank you_ , not even to Tommy, but she meant it this time around as it was the truth. Maeglin said nothing, but turned to look at her nonetheless, his hair twisting over his shoulder. They were very close like this, but not uncomfortably so, and sitting as she was Lucy was somewhat startled by the extreme length of his eyelashes. Their volume was noticeable.

“I think we should call a truce,” she said, somewhat forgetting that she’d been the one to start their fight in the first place. Lucy had Glorfindel to worry about, however, and Maeglin controlled the dungeons and was nephew to the King. He was a gatekeeper of sorts, and had privileges that the other elves didn’t. He might help her escape. The more she thought about it, the more Lucy liked the idea.

“I’m not supposed to like you.” she confessed. “Tommy hates you, but Tommy’s dead. I think we should be friends. Good friends. Our insides match.” Maeglin didn’t react to this, as expected, but Lucy was undeterred. “Friends.” she repeated. The elf lord stared at her, radiating a detached sort of calm. Without thinking the gesture through, Lucy reached out to grab his hand, hooking their little fingers together. It was a childish gesture –one brought on from her formative years with Tommy – but she didn’t care. Maeglin watched as she completed the movement, remaining docile throughout. Afterwards he stared at their entwined fingers, his brows furrowed in confusion. Maeglin’s confusion struck Lucy as painfully familiar, as she was not used to having a lot of friends as well. She felt a slight twinge of sympathy for him, then pushed it aside. It felt too strange to feel sympathy for Maeglin. For anyone really, except for Tommy.

“Friends.” Lucy repeated. “We should be friends. We match.” He still didn’t get it. Lucy thought back, wracking her brain for some way to communicate, and in a flash of clarity she remembered the conversation she’d had with Morwen just before she’d been taken to the Council Chamber, all those weeks ago.

"Maeglin, mellon nîn." she declared, stumbling over the elvish words. Maeglin’s expression became more animated, and Lucy watched as he eyed their conjoined hands with renewed interest. "Mellon nîn." she repeated, giving him an awkward smile that was little more than a twitch of the upper lip.

Maeglin looked up, his eyes widening as he stared at her. A change came over his countenance. For a brief moment the hunger was there, and Lucy saw it; that insatiable, ravenous desire for something _more_ that lurked just beneath the surface. Then the look was gone as quickly as it’d came, and in its place was an unassuming sort of awkwardness, complete with shifting eyes and pursing lips as the elf lord searched for something to focus on. There was the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks.

“Oh.” he said, clearing his throat and swallowing hard as he looked away. His black hair fell in a curtain down the far side of his face. A moment later Lucy felt his little finger squeeze around hers, the slightest sign of acknowledgement. When the ellon let go and turned his palm over, re-gripping her hand and entwining their fingers, Lucy let him. It was an awkward sort of fit, his hand much bigger than hers, but surprisingly natural.

They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, for the next several hours in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all you who left kudos/bookmarked/commented! Glad to hear you’re all intrigued/enjoying the story. An additional big thanks goes to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness, for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Baw – No
> 
> Havant en. Na maer – Sit still. Be good
> 
> Maeglin, mellon nîn – Maeglin, my friend


	9. The Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 21, 2016

Almost two weeks passed, and in that time avoiding Glorfindel became all but impossible.

He was persistent. Hopelessly, single-mindedly persistent, and during the first week Lucy tried using every single excuse she could think of in an effort to avoid him, all to no avail. She was still healing, she told Anaduilin. She was sick and she didn't have the energy to talk, so she couldn't have any visitors. The King had the final say over who was able to see her and who wasn't, however – although Maeglin seemed to flit around this rule easily enough – so when Turgon came to visit Lucy later on in the week, she was more than ready to plead her case with him.

There were several other elf lords that accompanied the King, among them an ellon with pale blue eyes and sallow skin, called Salgant, and Maeglin. The fourth elf lord to join them arrived later on, and he was tall and broad shouldered with a patrician face. Morwen informed her that the dark-haired Noldo’s name was Egalmoth – one of the oldest elves that lived in the city.

The elf lords sat in front of her in a single row of four, with Morwen and the guards off to the side. The questions they asked were the same as they’d been in the Council Chamber, except they were notably absent of any mention of Sauron, Silmarils, or Fëanorians. The King inquired about Lucy’s name and how to spell it; what the name of her traveling companion had been, the full name of her parents and any family members that might still be living, however unlikely. Some of their questions were even more mundane than that, ranging from queries about her favourite activities, to any allergies she had in relation to food.

Lucy told them that she had no hobbies and she hated sweets, but that she could sing. They asked her to, and she did so for a brief moment. The elf lords seemed to greatly enjoy this, and for the first time since they’d met, Turgon graced Lucy with a distant smile. Egalmoth seemed to be just as important as the Noldo prince, and many times he asked questions directly. Salgant stayed silent, only once or twice leaning over to whisper something to a scribe. The entire time, Maeglin clasped his hands together and lowered his eyes, refusing to look at her. For the most part, Lucy ignored his reserved behavior.

Somewhat abruptly, the King apologized, saying that council business had kept Glorfindel away. Lucy immediately tensed. Turgon – misinterpreting her rigid posture – asked if she would like to speak to the elf lord upon his return. Lucy said _no_ and blamed her reluctance on _the books_ , but beyond that she didn’t give a reason. The King was too leery about setting off another chain of events, so he accepted Lucy’s request without complain. When he left Maeglin left with him, but not before lifting his head and catching Lucy’s eye. When she met his gaze, he quickly turned and all but fled the premises. Lucy was grateful for the relative silence.

Afterwards she was left alone and saw no more elf lords, blond haired or otherwise. It was just Morwen and herself, and Anaduilin too when she went for her walks. Lucy would have liked to keep it that way, except Glorfindel was difficult to escape from and impossible to ignore. Soon after the meeting, Lucy learned that his current absence was only a temporary reprieve. Morwen informed her that The Lord of the Golden Flower was very busy; Gondolin was safe, but the elves in the surrounding territories were dying by the thousands, and one of their cities had recently been sacked. Refugees were fleeing south. The King was terribly concerned about the city’s safety, so Glorfindel and the other elf lords had seen their duties increased as a result. The Lord of the Golden Flower was apparently in charge of great swaths of the city’s defenses, which was why Lucy always saw him in his armour. Turgon’s decree dissuaded Glorfindel from visiting sometimes, but not enough. Whenever he wasn’t patrolling the borders, the ellon was making his way down to the subterranean layers beneath the city to try and speak with her. He was so single-minded in his focus that Lucy knew it was only a matter of time before he stopped listening and searched her out in earnest.

_I shouldn’t have told him_ , she decided after berating herself for several hours one day. _I shouldn’t have said anything._ Lucy was sure her admission about the balrogs had made the elf lord even more determined to speak with her. She liked her walks, but the ellon had the uncanny ability of emerging out of the darkness whenever she ventured past her cell. He was **so** persistent that soon Lucy was forced to stop walking altogether. When she did, Maeglin came to visit her.

He hadn’t searched her out on his own since he’d sat on her bed, and when he arrived it was in a forcefully casual way, with him sending her sideways glances and overtly clinging to the shadows. Maeglin made sure to stay out of arm’s reach, but Lucy could tell just by looking at him that being in situations where he had no experience made the elf lord especially nervous. With him was Morwen, ostensibly to translate. Lucy sat on her bed, huddled beneath the blankets as she ripped off a loose thread off the edge of her nightgown.

“The Lord Maeglin wishes to know why you are not out for your walk.” Morwen said. “He has given Anaduilin permission to take you outside for such, but the warden says you have been refusing to move, as of late.”

“I just don’t want to.” Lucy mumbled, avoiding their gaze. She wasn’t lying about it, per say. She simply didn’t want to say Glorfindel’s name aloud, as doing so seemed to bring him forth like the bogyman. Morwen didn’t question this answer herself, but Maeglin eyed Lucy with a visible scowl, as if her lack of cooperation was a personal insult. A moment later he turned to Morwen, speaking to her in a drawling tone as he waved her out of the room. Morwen left, albeit reluctantly. The door was shut noisily her.

With Morwen gone, Maeglin moved to crouch in front of her. He didn’t touch her, as the guards were still there, but his gaze did shift to her hands more than once to watch her play with the edge of her nightgown. Every time Lucy did so, his cheeks would flush a little deeper. Maeglin’s big black eyes were hungry again, and very calculating, but the hunger only seemed to last a minute.

Eventually he spoke. "Glorfindel?" he asked. Tommy had always said he was smart.

Lucy frowned and glanced at him sideways, before nodding once in confirmation. Maeglin didn’t sigh, or say anything else to indicate that he understood one way or another, but a moment later he stood, turning and leaving the room without a word. Later, Anaduilin came back to her cell, accompanied once more by Morwen. Lucy was told in no uncertain terms that it was time for her walk, and she had no say in the matter. It was important that she got better.

"The Lord Maeglin says you do not need to worry about walking anymore." Morwen assured her. "The path is clear."

There was something ominous about her statement that Lucy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Maeglin was true to his word, however, and the halls were empty. There was no Glorfindel that day, or the day after that. When Lucy finally decided to ask _why_ , Morwen said that Maeglin had found some area in Gondolin’s borders that was in need of inspection. He’d recommended to his uncle that several of the elf lords should be sent out to oversee it, and Glorfindel had been among the first to be chosen.

Briefly, Lucy was reminded of one of her first impressions of Maeglin, where she’d thought him the type to kill his enemies no matter how petty the disagreement. Out of a perverse sort of fascination, she asked if the two elf lords got along. Morwen repeated this question to Anaduilin, and after conversing with the silver-haired warden for a bit, she turned to Lucy and shrugged her shoulders.

“He cannot say. The Lord Maeglin is very young, but he is smart and well mannered, and the other lords are fond of him. He and the Lord Glorfindel are distant with one another, but this is to be expected, yes? They are from different places.”

"Where's Maeglin from?" Lucy asked, genuinely curious. From what Morwen had told her the city was closed, and no one was allowed to enter or exit.

"Nan Elmoth. It is Sindar territory."

Lucy filed this information away to mull over later, but said nothing in the moment. She enjoyed her walks and the reprieve Maeglin had brought her, but like all things in the dungeon it wasn't to last. On the eleventh day, Glorfindel finally returned from the borders.

* * *

The day started off normally enough. Lucy woke up cranky, Limbrethil was mothering, and Morwen was far too talkative. All in all, nothing seemed amiss.

Lucy had been feeling better earlier on in the week, and while she was still chilled, the air no longer hurt her lungs. She hadn’t seen Glorfindel in a while, so even though she no longer had access to Tommy’s books, Lucy had been filled with a sense of purpose. She’d finally figured out the general layout of the dungeons, and was well on her way to formulating a rudimentary plan of escape. The ravine was just beneath her feet and to the north of her cell, and two days prior Morwen had let it slip that the waterway supposedly dipped down into a network of nearby caves that eventually led into the mountains. Lucy didn’t know what to do with this information yet, but it still made her hopeful for the future.

Unfortunately for her, she’d woken up feeling incredibly ill that morning. Immediately Lucy knew she was in for a fresh round of migraines, as all the signs were there. The weather had been changing over the past several months, and the sudden shift in air pressure that signalled the tell tale transition from spring to summer made her feel tired and achy all over. Even the smallest amount of light was unbearable. She didn’t want to get up, but Limbrethil had shaken her awake regardless.

Listless and in pain, Lucy sat on the edge of her bed while the elleth redressed her bandages and brushed out the tangles in her hair. It had grown even longer over the past couple months, and in the low light of the dungeons it turned a dark brown in color, brushed to a sheen by Limbrethil’s attentions and curling into soft, heavy loops at the end. Morwen sat at the foot of the bed, watching them with a speculative gaze.

“You have lovely hair, Sweetness.” she told Lucy, her voice deceptively light. “You are lucky that Limbrethil is here to help you. You should take better care of it.” Morwen’s own hair was drawn back, as per usual, and mostly hidden beneath her veil. Lucy – who was already feeling ill tempered – did not mince her words. Her tone was more caustic than usual.

"I'm stuck in a dungeon." she mumbled waspishly. "What does it matter?"

Morwen shrugged, but glanced at Limbrethil sideways while speaking. When she spoke her words were half-conspiratorial. "Elves like pretty things." she said slowly. "It is good to be pretty here."

"I don't care what the elves like." Lucy snapped back.

"You should." Morwen warned. "You are their prisoner, after all. Eldar take pity on the beautiful.”

Limbrethil left once Lucy was seen to, and Morwen stayed with her until Anaduilin arrived to escort her on her daily walk. Lucy didn’t mind doing the circuit, but she was feeling weaker than she had in weeks. When she stood she swayed, her hand automatically reaching out to grasp Anaduilin’s sleeve. Lucy gripped the fabric and closed her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. It didn’t, and as she stood there she heard the prison warden question Morwen in a dulcet tone. The older woman turned to Lucy.

“Anaduilin wishes to know if you are well enough to walk.” she said, concern coloring her voice.

Lucy didn’t want to walk, but at the moment she didn’t want to stay in her cell, either. She didn't really know **what** she wanted beyond closing her eyes, and it left her feeling all twisted and anxious.

“I can walk.” she said, not taking her hand off Anaduilin’s arm. “But not all the way.” Anaduilin gave a slight nod of understanding when Morwen translated this, then let Lucy keep her hand on his sleeve for balance. Morwen said nothing, folding her hands into the length of her sleeves as she stepped past the door.

Once they were in the hallway, two of the guards fell into step on either side of them, moving in silence except for the occasional _clink_ of their chain mail. The walk was uneventful, as there was no one there to disturb them. Lucy moved slowly, her joints aching and her head pounding. All her senses felt amplified, her eardrums throbbing with pressure. Anaduilin stayed close, resting his slim hand against her lower back. Lucy was sure he was doing it for efficiency’s sake, and not for sympathy, but she appreciated the gesture regardless.

“Where’s Maeglin?” she asked hoarsely. She didn’t really care where he was, but she felt like she had to inquire about him all the same. The elf lord was slightly more accommodating when she acted like she cared about him. Word always seemed to trickle back to his ear, and Lucy was sure it was through Anaduilin.

Morwen shrugged, then gave a small, rueful sort of smile. "Somewhere." she said. "Doing lordly things. Noldor things." There was a hint of humor to her voice, although it was strained.

“Oh.” Lucy said, not really wanting to talk about much else. There was a twisting sensation beneath her breastbone that was beginning to make her worry. It felt familiar – the same sort of sensation that she’d felt just before the incident in the Council Chamber. Morwen seemed to recognize her need for silence, so she spoke no more. The torchlight flickered eerily over the planes of her face, turning the hue of her skin a rich golden color. The three of them completed the rest of the circuit in silence.

On the way back, while passing by a junction between two corridors, one of Maeglin’s guards came striding out of the adjacent hall. The ellon did not seem to be anyone important, but when he spotted them he nearly sprinted, placing his gloved hand on Anaduilin’s shoulder as he whispered something in the Sinda’s ear. Lucy looked towards them and saw the warden’s expression slowly darken. Whatever the gaoler had said didn’t seem to be good.

The guard retreated, running back down the hall the way he’d came. Moving quickly Anaduilin turned to Morwen, pushing Lucy into her arms with a delicate shifting of hands. His fingers slid along her skin in an uncomfortably ticklish manner. When the ellon spoke to the older woman his tone was soft, but there was a terse sort of quality to it that Lucy didn’t like. She didn’t understand much of what was being said, but she’d been around the elves for long enough to know one or two words. Vaguely, she picked up the Sindarin meaning for “her,” along with something that translated to “seeing.” Morwen’s expression grew grimmer the longer Anaduilin talked, and by the end of it her arm was wrapped around Lucy’s back, her hand gripping her shoulder. The Warden cast a single inscrutable glance in Lucy’s direction before disappearing down the hall, moving in the same direction as the gaoler.

Lucy was left standing in the middle of the corridor, alone with Morwen and her guards. The guards on either side of them shifted nervously, their chain mail rustling softly with the movement. Around them the area was illuminated by the soft glow of their torches, but the light was so low that Lucy couldn’t see more than ten paces in any direction. The hallway that Anaduilin had fled down was completely dark.

“Where’d he go?” Lucy asked, her voice turning into a croak from the strain of her growing migraine. She wasn't supposed to be left alone. Anaduilin was supposed to stay with her at all times when she was out of her cell, and everyone knew this. She didn’t like it. Morwen smiled in an anxious manner, her free hand reaching over to grip Lucy’s hand in hers. The other rubbed up and down her white-clad shoulder in comfort.

"There is an incident somewhere in the dungeons above us, yes? Anaduilin, he says he must deal with it. He has no other choice."

This did not assuage Lucy's fears at all. Anaduilin never left her. Anaduilin was **predictable**. "Why?" she asked, horribly apprehensive. Morwen's lips were pursed before she spoke.

"The guard," she said, seeming to struggle to find the words. "He says… he says he saw something."

Lucy eyed the darkness around them with a new sense of foreboding. The gaolers beside them stayed still. There was no breeze in the corridor. No movement, save for the flickering light of the torches, and no sound except for the roar of the ravine echoing below them. The scream of the silence was deafening, and Lucy was struck with the sudden, inexplicable need to go back to her cell. Something was wrong. She should have listened to the twisting feeling beneath her breastbone, and she hadn't.

"I want to go back." she said, reaching up with a shaky hand to rub at her eyes. They hurt something awful under the light, even though it was minimal. "Take me to my cell. Please."

Lucy felt Morwen’s hand rubbing up and down against her too-thin arm, before moving back to her shoulder to massage it in clockwise circles.

"We will go back soon, Sweetness. You understand, yes?" she said softly. "We just have to wait for Anaduilin. We cannot move unless he is here. He will not be long, I swear."

"We need to go now." Lucy insisted. Morwen's hand stilled against her shoulder.

"Sweetness, we cannot leave without Anaduilin –"

"It's here." Lucy choked out in a warbling tone. She didn't know what _it_ was, but suddenly "it" seemed like the best word to describe the sensation. Lucy could feel it; the horrible clenching, that twisting beneath her breastbone; the inescapable feeling that something was watching. _It_ was getting closer. "We need to go. We have to."

Morwen's mood changed. "Is it –" she began. "That is to say, the time before –" Lucy nodded numbly, her hand still covering her eyes. She felt so sick and scared.

"Oh." said Morwen, her tone flat-lining as her fingers dug into Lucy's arm. Lucy could sense her sudden panic. "I – oh. One minute, Sweetness. One minute. I will talk to the guards."

Morwen drifted away from her to speak to the gaolers. Lucy stood there swaying, listening to the roar of the ravine. Morwen hadn't gone far, but she still felt naked and alone. Lucy looked up, her eyes searching for the woman instinctively. Briefly, her gaze passed over the adjacent hallway before immediately backtracking, her heart jump-starting inside her chest.

There was something large and white with limbs like rubber waiting in the shadows. It was clinging upside down to the ceiling.

It was big, this skeletal creature with disjointed limbs that dangled above them, staying perfectly still as it watched Lucy and the elves with bird-like curiosity. The creature's head was twisted all the way around so it was looking right side up, it's shiny skull bald and smooth as an egg. There were no eyes, and it had two slits for nostrils; its rubbery lips pulled back to show three rows of anglerfish teeth. The creature seemed to draw in several short breaths. A second later it cocked its head in Lucy's direction, as if realizing she was there.

Lucy wanted to scream, but didn't. She wanted to run, but she couldn't seem to do that either. Suddenly the creature scuttled backwards across the ceiling like a giant albino crab to disappear into the darkness. None of the elves seemed to have noticed, and Lucy's heart felt like it would burst out of her chest it was beating so rapidly. Her hands started to shake.

There was a warm, wet feeling against her lips and her chin, the faint scent of iron and a delicate _pattering_ sound echoing along the hallway. Slowly, Lucy looked down to see blood dripping across the front of her nightgown. She didn't reach up to touch her face to see where it was coming from. Her nose was bleeding profusely.

"Morwen." she said shakily. When the woman didn't respond, she raised her voice, keeping her gaze studiously trained to the floor. She was terrified of looking at the shadows. " **Morwen**."

Morwen turned and let out a gasp. Immediately the guards became animated. One of them drew their sword.

"Oh, Sweetness! What happened?" Morwen exclaimed, rushing forward and using her own sleeve to try and stop the flow of blood.

"I saw it." Lucy said, her hands shaking. "It was here." Morwen gripped her hands to still the tremors. When she translated Lucy's words to the gaolers, the farthest one went running off down the corridor to find Anaduilin. The other moved closer so that they were huddled together, his torch held aloft as he stared fixedly into the gloom. Lucy stood there shaking, shivering all over as her nightgown fell down her shoulder. Morwen wiped at her face again and again, but the blood just kept coming. Lucy was starting to feel dizzy. The twisting sensation beneath her breastbone hadn't left.

"I didn't say anything," she told Morwen through chattering teeth. It felt important that she stated it, because she really **hadn't** said anything this time around. She'd been good. "I was quiet. You heard me. I didn't do it."

"I know, Sweetness." Morwen said, wadding up the train of her sleeve and holding it against Lucy's nose. "It's alright." It wasn't, but Lucy was glad that Morwen said it. The statement made her feel a little less alone.

A few minutes later Anaduilin returned, moving faster than Lucy had ever seen him do so. His expression was tense. In a single fluid motion he picked her up and carried her back to her cell. Lucy let him do so without complaint, immediately huddling beneath her covers the minute they were back in her room. The guards outside her cell were doubled, and extra torches were lit as the elves bustled about the corridor. Once Anaduilin reattached Lucy’s manacle, Morwen ripped off a strip of fabric from the thinnest blanket and wadded it up against Lucy’s nose.

Lucy held the rag to her face, lying on her side and swamped with dizziness. The bleeding was receding, but not fast enough. Anaduilin left, locking the door and leaving the two of them trapped in the room. One of Lucy's gaolers began pacing about the chamber, his hand clenching around the grip of his sword. In her mind's eye, Lucy could still see the creature scuttling backwards across the ceiling. "Where is Anaduilin going?" she asked, her voice sounding thick. Morwen looked pale. The woman swallowed nervously, speaking loudly to fill the silence.

“They are doing a search of the dungeons. Something… I do not know what, but before they left, one of the guards said he saw something strange in the dungeons. There has never been a breach of Gondolin before. Not once. This city is well protected, yes? All elven cities are.” Morwen nodded, as if trying to convince herself of this. “If there is a breach, they will find it. But we are safe here. We are always safe with the elves. These elves are Noldor, yes? Noldor are good at fighting, good at killing. Everyone says so.”

Lucy didn’t comment on this, just like she didn’t say anything else about the creature she had seen in the corridor. She knew instinctively that if she started talking about it, bad things would happen. It was that feeling again – that sensation she’d gotten in the Council Chamber. Morwen talked when she was nervous, however, and in that moment she was very much so, sitting rigidly on the edge of the cot. The noise made Lucy’s head throb.

"Where I come from," Morwen was saying. "It is open, yes? Above ground, and near the forest. You can see Eryn Galen along the horizon, and if one walks for a day and a half they will reach the edge. The northern edge, that is. I have never been to the south. There is danger there, you see, but it is open and you can run away if something comes for you. You are not trapped underground there, like one is in the dungeons. When they were younger, my sons liked to play in the hills."

"Morwen." Lucy said slowly, closing her eyes to try and combat the sensation of drumming against her skull. "I feel sick. I need to sleep." Her voice was a hoarse croak, muffled by the rag she held against her nose. Lucy wanted to say that her head hurt – that Morwen's talking made it worse – but as per usual, she was unable to explain herself. She heard the older woman shuffling around at the end of the bed. Not long after, a gentle hand came to rest on Lucy's shoulder. "Would you like me to call for Limbrethil?" Morwen asked. Her concern sounded genuine.

Lucy thought of the white thing clinging to the ceiling with limbs like rubber, its teeth sharp as needles, and shook her head. She immediately regretted the movement when her headache worsened.

"No." she whispered hoarsely. "It's just a migraine." She wanted to believe it was just a migraine. If she said anything else, Lucy was sure she was going to bring the wrath of some unnamed god down upon her.

"A _migraine_?" Morwen asked, her hand tensing slightly against Lucy's shoulder when there was the sudden clatter of something metallic in the hallway, and an increase in noise from the guards.

"It's a bad headache." Lucy clarified. "They make me puke sometimes."

"Do they make you bleed as such?"

Lucy didn't have to open her eyes to know that Morwen was gesturing to her nose. She tried to fight back an anxious swell of nausea. "No." she said softly. Morwen was quiet, but not for long.

"Is it related to Sauron?" the woman asked in a whisper. Lucy was too swamped by vertigo to shake her head. Her sinuses felt congested from the nosebleed.

"I'm tired, Morwen." she managed to choke out, willing the pounding in her head to go away. "The noise hurts. I need to sleep." She didn't want to talk about this. The bed felt like it was rocking beneath her, the world was spinning so badly. She just wanted to be left alone and pretend the creature in the hallway was never there.

"I am sorry, Sweetness." Morwen said, softening her tone so that Lucy could barely hear her over the constant roar of the ravine. "I am just… it is lonely for me as well. And I am not so used to being trapped underground." The woman let out a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. "I want to go home." she choked out. “I miss my sons. The youngest is only five summers old.”

Lucy felt guilty for once. "I'm sorry you're stuck here." she told the older woman, and she meant it. Briefly, she opened her eyes to watch her. Morwen smiled sadly, her hands clenching nervously in her lap before she went back to picking at her nails.

"It's not your fault, Sweetness." Morwen said. "It is just the way of things, you see? Us mortals, we must stick together. We mean little to the Noldor, I am thinking."

Lucy agreed with her wholeheartedly.

It was an awkward, anxious sort of silence that followed, with Lucy huddling beneath the blankets as she held the rag to her nose. Morwen sat on the edge of the bed, picking at her nails and looking towards the door whenever there was an increase in sound. Although Lucy couldn’t smell anything because of her congested nose, there was a noticeable chill to the air. She drew her legs up to her chest for warmth, drifting in and out of consciousness, but sometime later she felt a familiar prickling sensation between her shoulder blades that signaled that she was being watched.

Not long after, there was a commotion at the door: the gentle murmur of elves speaking in Sindarin. Immediately Lucy recognized one of the voices.

_Oh no,_ she thought. _No. Not now._

"Ai, what is he doing here?" Morwen said in a hissing whisper. "The King has told him no again and again. The guards, I thought they would call for the Lord Maeglin –"

The latch clanged as it was abruptly unlocked, the door creaking loudly as it swung wide open. Lucy heard the rustle of thick woollen skirts as Morwen rose to greet their visitor. In response Lucy burrowed deeper under the blankets and didn't look up. She knew who it was. His presence was like a searing burn across her skin that hurt whenever he got nearer.

Morwen's footsteps were soft as she stepped away from the cot. "Hîr nín, ci heriabad." Lucy heard her say. Her tone was polite, but firm.

"Mana raeg?" Glorfindel asked. Even though Lucy was hiding beneath the covers, his voice rang clear across the room, rich and lilting as he spoke. He had an incredibly expressive voice for an elf, and Lucy could tell just by listening to him that he was perturbed and confused by whatever was going on in the hallway.

_Maybe you should lead him to it,_ the voice crooned inside her head. _Take him to the creature, and let it gnaw on his bones._

Lucy banished the thought. She was feeling too ill, and her fear of the shadows was stronger than her dislike of the elf lord. She buried her face into the pillow, blood-stained rag and all. Out of all the elves that had come to annoy her, and on all days, it had to be **him**. He was a constant reminder of Tommy. Lucy heard the tap of his leather boots as he strode towards her. Desperately, she wished the ellon were still patrolling the borders. She wasn't ready to deal with him yet.

"My Lord." Morwen began in English, before seeming to realize her mistake and abruptly switching to elvish. "Hîr nín, daro." But Glorfindel wasn't listening. There was the sensation of someone standing very close to her; the feeling of a large hand coming down, gentle but firm as it fell upon her shoulder. Lucy flinched under the contact. Glorfindel immediately flinched in return; withdrawing his hand in such a way that it almost seemed like Lucy's rejection had burned him.

"He teitha au." he said, sounding confused and almost hurt. In the hallway there was another commotion. Lucy heard the patter of a gaoler's feet as he ran past, his chain mail jangling. Morwen moved to stand beside the elf lord, explaining something to him in softly spoken Sindarin. Glorfindel's response was thick with an emotion Lucy couldn't place. The hurt was more evident this time, making his words quick and choppy.

"Lucy, Sweetness." Morwen said a moment later, her tone full of false charm. "I know you are not feeling well, but I think it would be best if you came out. The Lord Glorfindel is here. He wishes to speak with you."

"I don't want to speak with him." Lucy's voice wavered as she spoke. Morwen sighed.

"Lucy, he is just worried about you, Sweetness. He means you no harm." She paused, and when she spoke again her tone was noticeably darker than it’d been before. "Please." she said in a terse whisper. "I do not wish to make this day any worse than it already is. Anaduilin is still missing."

"I don't care." Lucy said, her voice rising into a piteous warble. "Send him away!"

To her credit, Morwen tried to do this. She explained something to the ellon in a flowery, pacifying tone, but it did absolutely nothing to deter the elf lord. When Glorfindel spoke he was definitely upset. Lucy didn't know what he was saying, but she could pick out a few words as he conversed with Morwen in a rapid-fire manner. Something about "being confused," "no hurting," and "good." The gentle weight of his hand came to rest on Lucy's shoulder again. This time it was firmer, and confident.

"Lucy." Morwen said, a bit more forcefully as a door was slammed somewhere outside the cell. There was a muted clanking sound as one of the gaolers turned and left the room, presumably to see to the source. "Lucy, I am not sure why you wish to remain as such, but I really do think you should speak to – ai! My Lord, hîr nín!"

Glorfindel's slim hands curled around the edge of Lucy's blanket as he peeled them away from her face, cutting Morwen off mid-speech. The elf lord made a soothing sound when Lucy cringed at the sudden exposure, his voice serene and meant to pacify. There was the soft sound of creaking leather and the clinking of armor as he crouched beside her. A moment later, Lucy felt Glorfindel's hand on the side of her head, brushing back her hair to expose her face. He wasn't wearing any gloves, and when his skin touched hers for the briefest of moments, Lucy felt flesh that was so smooth it was akin to heated marble.

"Lucy." he said softly. The sound of her name coming from his lips – slightly mangled by his accent, but spoken with familiarity and overwhelming warmth – caused a shudder to stir at the base of her throat. Lucy swallowed convulsively, clenching her rag as she turned her head to glare murderously at the elf lord. When she did so Glorfindel made a wordless sound of sympathy as he saw her bloody nose. There was a painful kind of intensity to the elf lord’s gaze, the blue of his irises slightly luminescent in the dark. Briefly, the ellon's slim fingers darted across her temple to carefully sweep a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. They felt like spider webs ghosting across her skin, but overwhelmingly _present_ despite the delicate nature of his gesture. He handled her like glass.

"Lucy, cardh rîn nin?" he asked hesitantly. Some of his hair was pulled back in a messy knot that rested at the base of his neck, but most of it pooled in a wavy golden waterfall that fell all the way to the floor. When Lucy eyed him, Glorfindel smiled hopefully, but the gesture was fragile and tremulous. It wobbled, then fell into something sadder when she didn't respond.

"Lucy, please speak." he pleaded. She understood his words this time around, but she still stayed silent. Glorfindel's expression fell further, his gaze darting rapidly to different parts of her face as if searching for something or trying to memorize it. When the elf lord reached out to brush away another lock of hair, his hand was shaking.

Morwen leaned forward, trying to get the ellon's attention. She was eying the two of them with concern, her brow furrowed.

"Hîr nín, i ara candh ú anglenna." she said reproachfully. Glorfindel's hand fell away from Lucy's temple in a self-conscious manner, but even as he turned to speak to Morwen he seemed to forget himself. His retreating fingers instinctively grasped a lock of Lucy's hair. The elf lord began nervously fiddling with the end of it, as if the gesture calmed him.

"Pednin man ilqua." he commanded, his voice cracking halfway through. He swallowed visibly.

Lucy watched the two of them converse, alternating between eying Glorfindel with growing malcontent and casting shifting glances towards the guards. They seemed perturbed by the elf lord’s presence, but their focus was mostly on the commotion in the corridor and they didn't interfere. Anaduilin still hadn't returned.

There was a disheveled quality about Glorfindel's countenance that seemed odd for an elf, his amour coated here and there in a fine layer of dust. A smudge of dirt had tracked its way across one of his high-boned cheeks, and the flyaway nature of his appearance made the ellon look hopelessly unguarded. His open, expressive nature only seemed to heighten this effect. In Tommy's books, the elf lord had died and then returned, but he was older than most elves of the Third Age and wiser than all except for a few. This Glorfindel wasn't old. He was young and very, very impatient. Lucy felt a stab of jealously twisting between her ribs. She could see why Tommy loved him, and she hated him for it. Lucy burrowed herself back into the pillows. At one point, Morwen gestured in the general direction of her ankle. Glorfindel followed the movement with a heavy-lidded, sapphire-blue gaze. A moment later, Lucy felt a cool draft of air as he lifted the blanket, sliding the hem of her nightgown away from her ankle in order to get a better look at the manacle. Glorfindel's fingers were warm, his touch overly familiar. The elf lord eyed the device with a frown.

His gesture was devoid of shame and seemingly without thought: almost automatic, as if he had done something similar before. Immediately Lucy drew back from his hand, letting out a hiss of displeasure. Only then did the ellon seem to realize what he was doing, and he visibly startled, his lips parting and eyes wide in surprise. The elf lord made a visible effort to compose himself, but like before he’d barely withdrawn before he was reaching for her again. His porcelain fingers latched on to the ends of Lucy’s hair like he didn't know how to stop.

Morwen was watching the two of them blatantly now, a frown on her face. The woman's next words to Glorfindel were short and clipped, the elf lord's voice rising slightly in return. They seemed to be arguing, but the guards did not interfere. Lucy supposed that even if they wanted to, they weren’t allowed. Glorfindel outranked everyone in the room, and then some, and his prestige was obvious in the way that the others were overwhelmingly deferential to him, despite their allegiance to Maeglin. There was a lull in the conversation, and when there was, Glorfindel stood and left. The minute he did so the gaolers shut the door behind him with a _bang._ Morwen looked to Lucy, her hands folded briefly in front of her before she reached out to readjust the blankets. Her expression was frosty and removed.

"Where do you know him from?" she asked. There was an edge to her tone that Lucy had never heard before. She drew the rag away from her nose to check the bleeding before re-positioning it. Lucy stared at the other woman sluggishly.

"I don't know him," she said, speaking through a nasally sounding cough. "I don't want him touching me. Don't let him back in."

Morwen sat on the edge of Lucy's bed and folded her hands in her lap. Her body language was brittle and guarded. "He seems to know you very well," she intoned.

"He's lying. Whatever he told you, he's lying. Keep him out."

"Sweetness, he is too friendly with you, even for a Noldo. Before, you told me that you knew him –"

"I meant from Tommy's **books**!" Lucy said, cutting Morwen off as she anticipated the question. There was an edge of hysteria to her voice, and she couldn't hide it. She was too stressed out. "I don't know him. I don't know him and I don't want him here! You keep him away from me!"

Morwen had no authority over this, however, and a minute later the door slammed back open. Like a fish drawn forward on a lure at the sound of his name, Glorfindel returned. He hurried into the room in a swirl of gold and ivory, fiddling with something between his pretty white hands that jangled like a set of keys.

When he approached the bed, Lucy saw that he **was** carrying a set of keys. There was a quiet look of determination on his face, his brow furrowed. As he bounded up the last few steps towards Lucy's bed it became obvious what he intended to do. Morwen's mouth fell open into an _o_ and she stood up, trying to cut him off. Her words were slightly rushed as she raised her hands, attempting to placate him. Glorfindel deftly sidestepped her, kneeling beside Lucy's bed and ripping aside the covers.

"Oh, I – my lord, my lord, hîr nín –" Morwen began, switching to Sindarin halfway through. "Hîr nín _,_ baw. Lá daro –"

Glorfindel remained quiet but utterly focused. Lucy shrank away from him, scrambling backwards, but the elf lord had already grabbed her chain, dragging her foot forward to meet his hand. "Shh," he soothed as Lucy let out an involuntary whimper and tried to twist away, his fingers wrapping all the way around her ankle as he fiddled with the manacle. "Ná varna."

He was bigger than Maeglin. Far bigger than Anaduilin, and even though the elf lord's hold was gentle his fingers locked like iron around her leg. The sudden realization of just how vulnerable she was – that she actually couldn't escape him – was terrifying. Lucy tried kicking him, but Glorfindel easily ducked, avoiding her foot as he brought forth the key. Her panicked whimpering got louder.

"My Lord, **stop it**." Morwen snapped, hovering beside the elf lord's shoulder. "You are scaring her!" Her hands fluttered nervously for a moment before she was speaking to him in elvish again, reaching down in a sudden fit of bravery to grasp his arm to try and pull him away. Glorfindel ignored the older woman.

"No." Morwen insisted as Lucy whimpered and Glorfindel grasped her heel, adjusting the manacle to insert the key. His expression had grown blanker the more he concentrated on the task, and Lucy's hysteria was mounting. The guards still didn't interfere, although one of them strode from the room, presumably to get someone of higher rank that could talk him out of it. "No, he isn't supposed to – we don't have permission – my lord, hîr nín _,_ daro!"

The key made a soft _click_ as it was inserted into the lock and twisted, and the second the manacle fell open Glorfindel tossed it aside and pocketed the key. Before Lucy could scramble away, the elf lord had gathered her into his arms, blankets and all. Then he was standing, walking quickly towards the door.

Morwen let out a shout, grasping her skirt as she hurried after them. Lucy struggled at first, trying to make the ellon put her down. The minute they stepped into the hallway, however, the twisting feeling beneath her breastbone spiked. The world spun, her vertigo skyrocketing. Seeing double, she collapsed against Glorfindel's shoulder, overwhelmed by nausea. Lucy couldn't see the creature, but she knew it was somewhere in the dungeons scuttling across the ceiling.

_This shouldn't be happening_ , something was telling her. _This didn't happen. This is **wrong**._

Glorfindel adjusted Lucy in his arms, mistaking her limpness for acquiescence. By the time Maeglin or any of the other lords realized she was missing, the elf lord had already absconded with her from the dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks goes to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness, for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> One of these days, when I have the time and this story is finished, I'm going to go back and fix all the Sindarin. Until then, the standard bad grammar warning applies.
> 
> Hîr nín, ci heriabad – My lord, you must go
> 
> Mana raeg – What is wrong
> 
> Hîr nín, daro – My lord, stop
> 
> He teitha au – She draws away (Quenya)
> 
> Lucy, cardh rîn nin – Lucy, do you remember me
> 
> Hîr nín, i ara candh ú anglenna – My Lord, the King ordered you not to approach
> 
> Pednin man ilqua – Tell me everything (Quenya)
> 
> Hîr nín, baw, lá daro – My lord, no, please stop
> 
> Ná varna – It is safe (Quenya)


	10. Confluence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 23, 2016

It was not the way that Lucy had wanted to escape the dungeons, but escape she did. In a short amount of time she went from being trapped underneath the city to being trapped above it, hidden away in place that at any other time – objectively speaking – would have been considered lovely.

Lucy liked her hobbit holes and dark lord towers, so when Glorfindel spirited her out of the dungeons into Gondolin proper, the elven architecture wasn't to her liking. Morwen was unable to keep up with the elf lord’s quick strides, and while the ellon was apologetic about this, he seemed disinclined to stop. By the time they reached the third city level, Morwen had fallen behind them.

The compound they ended up in was a walled estate of sorts, located on the third ring of the city from the top and facing westwards. The front entrance was large and arched, its doors open to the rest of the district as if inviting others indoors. Glorfindel sidestepped this, turning sharply to his left to dart down a narrow, darkened alley that was obscenely clean and barely three feet across. There, the two of them arrived at a small wooden door, the entrance hidden by pale green ivy creeping down the wall. The alley smelt overwhelmingly of pungent lilies, and Lucy could feel her migraine worsening as a result. Glorfindel shifted her so he could reach forward and grasp the door handle, leaning her against his chest. When he did so, Lucy ended up flailing in panic, wrapping her arms around his neck to keep her balance. 

The elf lord ducked as they went through the door, placing his free hand against the top of Lucy's head to protect it. On the other side they entered an open courtyard divided in half, with the front open to the public and the back walled off by another partition. From where they were standing, Lucy could see a blacksmith's shop housed beneath an open pavilion. Near the main entrance there was an ivory colored building that looked like a guardhouse, along with something that could have passed for a stable. In the center of this estate there were several large structures. The largest one was an astonishing thirteen stories high, and didn't even include the sharply slanted roof that was crowning it. Giant ferns grew in the shadows along its base, while trellises of flowers clung to every available surface. The inner partition to the courtyard was coated in pale green ivy, which snaked its way across the central buildings to climb up the left side of the manor all the way to the rim of the roof.

Lucy's first impression of the compound was that it was very much a place that Rapunzel would have lived in; she also knew that Tommy would have adored the building to pieces. Glorfindel began walking towards the tower, his steps rather hurried. As he did so, several elves rode into the courtyard on horseback, dismounting with ease. Glorfindel and Lucy were pointedly ignored, save by one who turned to look in their direction as they passed. The ellon met Glorfindel's gaze, and the two elves exchanged a nod and a warm smile on Glorfindel's part before continuing onwards. Lucy turned against the elf lord's shoulder to look at the mounted party, eying the soldiers with suspicion. 

The trip up the marble steps to the tower was a blur, as despite his size Glorfindel was uncannily agile. The elf lord was too light and fast on his feet, and this close he smelt like sunflowers, just as he had in the Council Chamber. Lucy's nose was still congested with blood, but as with the lilies the scent was so strong it overpowered her senses. She wanted to blame the sunflower smell on his hair, but it was easy to blame everything on Glorfindel's hair, as there really was too much of it. The loose strands brushed against the backs of her palms, its satin-like texture feeling downright alien.

“Go.” Lucy mumbled, trying to lean away from him. “Let me **go** –”

When she began struggling weakly, twisting in Glorfindel's arms in an attempt to make him to put her down, the elf lord made a shushing noise, his voice soft with concern and affection. Quickly he adjusted her to a more manageable position, his free going to rest against her back. He bounded up the last few steps towards the main building. At the top of the stairs stood an ellon and elleth who had recently emerged from the tower. The two of them were so alike that Lucy surmised they must have been siblings, or maybe even twins. They were the exact same height, sporting the same grey eyes and ash brown hair. They were even dressed in identical deep yellow robes, although the neckline on the elleth's dress was lower.

The two elves bowed low when Glorfindel approached. Abruptly Lucy was struck with the notion that they didn't look very much like the Noldor. They were both lily pale, which seemed typical of their kind, but their hair was too light. Their eyes were oddly reminiscent of Glorfindel's despite the fact that they lacked his vivid sapphire chroma. Glorfindel greeted them warmly, sounding much too chipper for the severity that the situation allowed. The elf lord spoke directly to the elleth, and she listened attentively, only once glancing in Lucy's direction before she turned around and disappeared inside. The strange ellon watched them with a blank expression. He was shorter than Glorfindel, but not by much. When Glorfindel started speaking, the elf’s expression softened noticeably, although his smile seemed somewhat forced. Lucy could see how upset the elf was in the way the skin pinched around his eyelids, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Glorfindel seemed oblivious to it all. He was speaking rapidly and with great excitement, his countenance brightening with child-like hope. The other ellon's gaze briefly fell on Lucy, before he returned his attention to his lord. That's when Lucy saw it: a resigned, old sort of sadness that came with experience. The ellon had seen something like this before, and he was not pleased.

Lucy squirmed in Glorfindel's arms, her head pounding and senses thick. Her limbs felt like jelly, but she didn't want him holding her, as being so close was nerve wracking. When Lucy pushed against the elf lord’s chest to try and force him back, the ellon turned to look at her with a slightly distracted smile, shifting his arm beneath her. His free hand once again went to her side instead of her back, his fingers spreading languidly over her ribcage to hold her steady. The manner in which Glorfindel treated her and their vast difference in size had the unpleasant effect of making Lucy feel like a toddler. She **hated** it.

"Let me go." she pleaded, reaching up to pry unsuccessfully at his fingers. Even though Glorfindel's grip was gentle, she couldn't move his hands an inch. The elf lord ignored her protests, his smile widening. That stupid smudge of dirt from the dungeons was still dusting the ridge of his cheekbone, and most of his hair had escaped its knot.

"Look, Lucy." he said softly. He turned to look at the brown haired ellon, angling Lucy so she was facing their companion. The other elf was watching the two of them with an inscrutable expression. "Hen ná _Aearmarth_." Glorfindel continued, as if introducing her to the other elf. "E ná núro nín."

He turned to look at Lucy again, his expression hopeful. "Innas ci suilanna e?" he asked.

"Put me down." Lucy repeated coldly. Glorfindel ignored her request, although his smile fell a little. The other ellon was still watching them, his expression disquieting in its insurmountable distance, his pale gray eyes disturbingly blank. Whatever emotion had been there before, he was hiding it exceedingly well now.

"Hîr nín, nalyë thala hen ná sael?" he finally asked. Glorfindel nodded, his smile so brilliant it was akin to looking at the sun.

"Yes." he said, and Lucy understood. There was no hesitation to his voice, although he seemed a little breathless with elation. "Né, haná ni mára."

From the unimpressed look on the other ellon's face, it was clear that he disagreed. Glorfindel didn't seem to care. The smaller elf sighed, placing his right hand against his chest and bowing slightly in acquiescence. Then he turned to walk towards the entrance, his leather bound book held in his left hand. Glorfindel followed.

When they reached the door the brown-haired ellon pulled it open, his deep yellow robes rustling softly around his feet as they brushed along the floor. Glorfindel stepped past him. Once inside the other ellon shut the door. The wood groaned loudly in the cavernous space of what appeared to be a vaulted chamber. With the stranger leading, the three of them went up a flight of square-spiral steps located on the far right side of the room. Lucy kept squirming in Glorfindel's grasp despite the precarious nature of the stairs, and when they got to the third floor the elf lord sighed and finally relented, carefully putting her down.

Lucy's feet had barely touched the floor before she was trying to dart past him and down to the landing. Glorfindel simply swept her back into his arms with casual, unaffected grace, carrying her the rest of the way there. When they got to the fifth floor they exited the stairwell to enter a rather short hallway, its marble arches carved with what looked like intricate, life-like wreathes of flowers. A deep yellow carpet lay along the length of the corridor, and at the very end there was a double set of doors made of pale oaken wood. The brown-haired ellon walked towards it, opening the doors with a perfunctory quickness and standing to the right to let them enter. 

Inside the room was large, but not too large, the architecture reminiscent of the Council Chamber. There was a long, wide table in the center of the room, upon which were piled dozens of maps and stacks of books. Half a dozen chairs were scattered about the room, and the left wall was lined with wooden bookshelves filled with scrolls and even more leather-bound tomes. There was a pale wooden door at the back of the room – a small one – and from the ceiling hung glass lamps that were a pale amber in color. Lucy surmised that the chamber was a study of sorts, and one that Glorfindel was familiar with, as he immediately relaxed upon entering. She hadn't realized how tense the elf was until she felt the muscles in his arms slacken. Cautiously, she chanced looking up at his face, and saw that Glorfindel’s eyelids had lowered. His expression was slightly glazed over with warmth. 

Lucy recognized that look. It was the same look that Tommy had worn whenever she was able to hide in one of her safe places, back before they came to Middle-earth. _Home._ Lucy realized abruptly. _This is home for him._ The elf lord didn't like being away.

Glorfindel quickly crossed the room, gently putting Lucy down in a wide, low-backed chair. He readjusted the blankets around her, before seeming to think better of it and hurriedly rushing over to grab an extra cover resting on the nearby table. The elf lord wrapped the soft russet blanket around Lucy's shoulders in what appeared to be an excessive amount of care. By the door, the ash-haired ellon watched them silently. His expression was not judgmental, per say, but Lucy could tell he was upset and getting more so the further Glorfindel fussed over her.

"I Aran ista ci gar dín?" the other ellon finally asked.

Glorfindel shook his head blithely. "No." he replied, light and unconcerned. The smaller elf’s expression twisted slightly, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. Glorfindel asked him something, then. With a barely perceptible nod the ellon turned and glided out of the room in a rustle of yellow fabric, leaving Lucy alone with the elf lord. Immediately her anxiety skyrocketed. Glorfindel seemed to have a hard time behaving around others, and she was sure he would act out worse once they were alone.

Oddly enough, he didn't. The ellon actually became somewhat morose. The minute the other elf was out of earshot, Glorfindel’s energy deflated, his happiness seeping away from him like water through a sieve. He wasn't sad, per say, but there was definitely a dejected air about him. Hesitantly the elf lord crouched in front of her, his long fingers fiddling with the edge of her blanket in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. Glorfindel was always fiddling with something during the quiet moments, and it seemed to grow worse when he was bothered. The two of them were at eye level like this, and Lucy noted that while the elf lord didn't have the complexion of a Noldo, he definitely had the face of one, his cheekbones high and his nose straight and narrow. The only other noticeable difference besides his coloring was the more pronounced tilt to his features.

Glorfindel opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn't, stopping himself before he could voice his first word. He was watching her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty, biting his bottom lip as he moved from picking at the edge of her blanket to absently curling a loop of Lucy's hair between his fingers. Lucy was almost positive now that he didn't realize he was doing it. It didn't seem to be a conscious act.

"Né ten nín neitha?" he finally asked. His voice lacked its usual confidence. Lucy glared at him, then looked away. Her head was pounding. Glorfindel seemed to like it when she met his gaze, and when Lucy didn't his expression fell into something rather heartbreaking.

"Lucy, it is **me** ," he said sadly. The words were spoken in elvish, but very basic, so Lucy could infer their meaning. There was a hint of despair to Glorfindel's voice, and Lucy detected an odd sort of urgency beneath his tone.

_What does he mean "it is me?"_ she thought. For reasons unknown, the feeling of tightness beneath her breastbone that had plagued her whenever something was about to go horribly wrong spiked. _I shouldn't be here,_ she decided. _I shouldn’t._ Cautiously, Lucy turned to look at Glorfindel. The elf lord's expression was so horribly honest and tragically open that she felt a surge of hatred when she still couldn't detect any rot. That smudge of dirt was still scrawled across his cheek, and the mere sight of it was irrationally annoying. Lucy reached out, wiping the dirt off his face with the edge of her sleeve. The elf lord visibly shuddered, his eyes going glassy as he leaned into her touch.

"You got dirt on your cheek." Lucy said simply, leaning away. She had bad impulse control. He did too, it seemed.

"Lucy –" Glorfindel began, his voice cracking as he said her name. At that moment a trio of elves entered the room in a clatter of armour, and Glorfindel's attention was diverted. He rose gracefully, turning to the other elves with a brilliant smile. It was as if the morbidity from before had never existed.

"Caragduin!" Glorfindel said to their leader, his voice full of its natural exuberance. "Ci na mae?"

The three elves were part of the company that Lucy had seen in the courtyard – the ones that had rode in on horseback – and like the twins they had the face and stature of the Noldor, but not the complexion of them. Only one of the elves was black haired, while the other two were blue-eyed and very fair. Their leader – who looked like a captain of sorts – was broad shouldered and tall, his flaxen braids pulled back from his face in a series of complicated knots and whorls. One of his hands was resting casually on the pommel of his sword.

"Mae govannen, Hîr nín." said the captain, placing his other hand over his chest and bowing slightly. "I edrain ná tîn." He was not especially welcoming, but neither was he reserved or cold. His gaze shifted carefully from the elf lord to Lucy, then back again. The ellon smiled slightly. Although his tone was light when he spoke, there was an edgy undercurrent to it.

 "Ci gar nafair." he teased, but Lucy thought he wasn't really joking at all. "Tenna presta ad?"

"Yes." said Glorfindel blithely, gesturing briefly in Lucy's direction. "Hen ná Lucy. He partha avorn ammen."

The captain's good-natured veneer fell away almost immediately, his expression growing stark. "Ta pedi ulunn ná Lucy." he warned. Glorfindel's response was slightly less exuberant, his tone chastising. When he spoke, the words were familiar. 

"She is a child," he stressed.

"Hîr nín." the captain said, his words sharp and brittle as he clenched his jaw. The elf’s gaze darted from Lucy to the maps resting on the table. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "He polû na sinomë."

"He na moina." Glorfindel insisted, waving his hand dismissively and turning towards the table. "Trenar nin man ci gar cen."

The captain did not seem pleased by this, but like the brown-haired ellon before him he quickly fell into line. Moving to stand on the other side, he easily transitioned into explaining various items and areas of interest on the map, pointing here and there to metallic figurines on the table. Glorfindel remained at Lucy's side, his arms folded across his chest and his stance wide as he listened attentively, only once or twice interjecting with what sounded like a question. The other elves quickly left the room, and while the captain's responses to Glorfindel's friendly banter were clipped and confrontational, the elf lord remained disturbingly upbeat. So long as Lucy didn't move, he didn't look at her. It left her with the distinct impression that she was alone and very much ignored. Morwen wasn't there to translate what was being said, and Lucy felt constantly on guard and far out of her depth because of it, hyper-conscious of Glorfindel's looming presence. She huddled inwards, clenching her hands in her lap as she glared. Some of her loose hair fell across her face and into her eyes, as there was a slight breeze winding its way through the open windows. Outside, Lucy could see the snow capped mountains in the distance, the afternoon sun shining bright.

Where was Anaduilin, she wondered? Where was Limbrethil, or Morwen and Maeglin, or any anyone else that had taken care of her over the past several months? Morwen was probably lost somewhere in the city, she knew, and perhaps Anaduilin was still hunting for the creature, but Maeglin had no reason not to be there. He was an elf lord too, wasn't he? And the dungeons were his. She’d been gone over an hour now, and no one had come to find her.

Slowly, Lucy began to drown under a sense of abandonment.

She hated being cast aside, as it was one of the few things that were sure to provoke her to hysterics. They couldn't leave her alone. Not after all this time. Slowly, Lucy’s breathing grew ragged, her anxiety deepening as she huddled up further. The captain shot her a cautious glance, and eventually Glorfindel reached out, placing his large hand against the back of her head as he gently smoothed down her hair. He kept his hand there while he continued talking, perhaps as a measure of comfort, but the elf lord's presence did little to ease her. If anything, it made Lucy's anxiety worse. Every time he touched her, she was hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly took her breath away. The feeling that was coming off him was so overwhelming it was all but physical, and it was completely disconnected to the short amount time that the elf lord had know her. It made no sense.

About ten minutes after the captain arrived, the brown-haired ellon with the yellow robes returned. He had a bright red book shoved into his pocket, and there was a brassy tray with several delicate containers placed atop it clutched between his hands. Both elves greeted him as he set down the dishware, and Glorfindel held up his hand in what seemed to be a short call for recess. The captain turned to talk to the brown-haired ellon, placing a gloved hand against his shoulder as the two of them angled their bodies away from the table. Glorfindel retrieved a cup from the brassy tray, turning towards Lucy and approaching her with visible determination. Lucy was struck with the impression that he was somehow nervous. He appeared to be fidgeting again, the movement of his hands light and fluttering as a bird's.

Once more the elf lord crouched in front of her, holding out a cup of what looked like tea. The teacup was plain, the drink dark in color and smelling faintly of mint. Lucy eyed it suspiciously before looking up at the elf, only to catch him staring back and leaning in far too close. Again, his expression was hopeful and tremulous. Immediately Lucy lowered her gaze.

There was an encompassing intensity to the way Glorfindel stared at her; so open and unguarded that his expression bordered on vulnerable. Briefly, Lucy was reminded of the time when she’d first met Maeglin, where he had taken her drink and then offered it back to her, but that was where the similarities between he and Glorfindel ended. As per usual, Lucy's nightgown was slipping down her shoulder, but unlike Maeglin Glorfindel's eyes never strayed from her face. When he moved to touch her, the gesture was cautious, as if he was afraid of spooking her further.

Carefully, he curled Lucy's thin fingers around the teacup as he placed it between her palms, his hands warm as they gently covered hers. Glorfindel was very big for an elf, and when he cradled her hands they disappeared completely, but there was nothing blunt about his size. His palms were slim and milky pale, his fingers long and slender as a pianist's.

"Ci baur soga." he said, full of warmth. "Ci innas matha mára."

Lucy chanced looking up, eying the elf lord from behind her curtain of hair. It was a mistake. Glorfindel was still too close. She could see all the minute details of his face, from the slight downwards curve of his full bottom lip to the way the sunlight glanced across his eyes, making the blue of his irises light up with little flecks of silver. His left ear was poking through the fall of his hair, and vaguely Lucy noted that the delicate point was more pronounced. Not longer, like Anaduilin's, but definitely sharper, and oddly more _elf-like_. Everything about him was distinctly alien.

When Glorfindel saw her staring back, his gentle expression morphed into a fragile smile. One of his hands reached upwards to carefully card her hair away from her face. He seemed mindful of touching her skin directly, but some contact was unavoidable. As the elf lord tucked her hair away, his slim fingers brushed along the rounded shell of Lucy's ear. She shuddered and backed away from his touch, but oddly, Glorfindel seemed more visibly affected by the contact. A slight tremor ran along his arm, and he swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if to clear something from his eyes. They were glassy looking, his pupils large. Lucy didn't know much about elven physiology, but if he’d been human she would’ve guessed that he was trying hard not to cry. 

"Ci neth o ir me medui cen ci." he said, then gave a self-depreciating laugh. His smile was terribly sad. "Egor kwí nányë iaur. Uin ist."

Lucy didn't respond, other than to lean away and turn her face from his gaze. Being around Glorfindel was uncomfortable. It was uncomfortable for a multitude of reasons, but in general the elf lord caused a strange feeling to rise beneath her ribcage: one that made her insides twist themselves into terrible knots. It was a feeling closely related to the intangible sense of danger that lurked just beneath the surface, the one that had been plaguing her for weeks. The elf lord's interest in her was going nowhere good, and much too fast towards a destination Lucy had no interest in. Lucy had always veered towards the obsessive side herself, but she was an expert at recognizing that same debilitating trait in others. Glorfindel had it in spades. The thought that he might turn his focus on her was slightly terrifying.

The captain and the brown-haired ellon stepped further away, speaking rapidly to one another as they discussed something in secret. When Lucy continued to ignore him, Glorfindel didn't move. Eventually he drew close, using both his hands to cover hers as he bowed his golden head to rest it atop her knees. The elf lord hid his face against the fabric, his wavy blond hair spiralling into whorls along the floor.

"Lucy, gohena nin." he said, his voice thick with emotion and slightly muffled. His hands remained clasped around hers, as if praying for forgiveness. The elf lord sounded miserable, and once again seemed to have lost all sense of propriety. "Lá gohena nin. Únen fir ci."

Lucy didn't move, her body rigid beneath his proximity. Morwen was right. Glorfindel was too familiar with her. **Had** been too familiar with her, ever since he’d seen her in the Council Chamber. Something was definitely off. From across the room, a delicate cough sounded. Lucy looked up to see Glorfindel's captain moving back to stand on the other side of the table, his pale hands clasped in front of him. His expression was forcibly neutral, although Lucy detected a note of pity to it.

"Hîr nín." he said evenly. "I pano." 

Glorfindel nodded against Lucy's knees, then let go of her hands as he gracefully rose to his full height. He was easily over six feet tall, but Lucy wouldn't have been surprised if he were actually seven. The ellon absently brushed her hair away from her face, before he seemed to forget himself and was threading his fingers through it instead. Briefly, the elf lord leaned over until his heavy golden tresses were tumbling across her arms to collect atop her lap. Lucy felt a strange, soft weight press down on top of her head as he placed a chaste kiss near her temple.

_NO,_ her conscience screamed in protest. _NO, TOO CLOSE._ Lucy was no good at picking up the nuances of their language, but she had been around the elves long enough to know a few basic words.

"My Lucy." she heard him whisper against her hair, almost reverent. "I missed you." 

She nearly dropped her teacup in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness, for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Like before, names first, sentences last (and in chronological order). Beware of the bad Sindarin grammar. There's a lot of it this time.
> 
> Aearmarth – Name
> 
> Caragduin– Name
> 
> Hen ná Aearmarth – This is Aearmarth
> 
> E ná núro nín – He is my seneschal/servant (Quenya)
> 
> Innas ci suilanna e – Will you greet him
> 
> Hîr nín, nalyë thala hen ná sael – My Lord, are you sure this is wise
> 
> Haná ni mára – It is for the best (Quenya)
> 
> I Aran ista ci gar dín – The King knows you have her
> 
> Né ten nín neitha – Was it my fault
> 
> Caragduin!Ci na mae – Caragduin! You are well
> 
> Mae govannen, Hîr nín – Well met, my Lord
> 
> I edrain ná tîn – The border is quiet
> 
> Ci gar nafair – You have been busy
> 
> Tenna presta ad – Up to trouble again (Quenya)
> 
> Hen ná Lucy. He partha avorn amen – This is Lucy. She will be staying with us
> 
> Ta pedi ulunn ná Lucy – They say the creature's name is Lucy
> 
> Hîr nín. He polû na sinomë – My Lord. She shouldn't be in this room
> 
> He na moina. Trenar nin man ci gar cen – She is safe. Tell me what you have seen
> 
> Ci baur soga. Ci innas matha mára – You need to drink. You will feel better
> 
> Ci neth o ir me medui cen ci – You (are) younger (than) when I last saw you
> 
> Egor kwí nányë iaur. Uin ist – Or maybe I am older. I do not know (Quenya)
> 
> Lucy, gohena nin – Lucy, forgive me
> 
> Lá gohena nin. Únen fir ci – Please forgive me. I did not find you
> 
> Hîr nín. I pano – My lord. The plan (Quenya)


	11. A Basket Full of Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 23, 2016

After Glorfindel whispered the words against her hair, and Lucy realized she wasn't going to die from shock, the elf lord turned his attention elsewhere. Blinking rapidly as if to clear the dust from his eyes, he looked ahead towards his captain, gesturing languidly for him to continue. The other elf did so.

A mask of professionalism seemed to fall over Glorfindel, and it was slightly fascinating to watch. It appeared as if once the elf lord set his mind to something, nothing could sway him from the task. With the cool, collected approach of someone who **hadn't** just abducted a prisoner from his own king's dungeons, Glorfindel set about reviewing the maps splayed across the table. Lucy stayed in her seat beside him, hunching in on herself, the tea untouched between her hands.

The elf lord seemed content to leave her, so long as she didn't try to escape. There was an unspoken rule that she had to stay within arm's reach and in sight of him, or the calm would drop and the ellon would become visibly agitated. Lucy tried it once. About fifteen minutes after they reconvened to review the maps, she abruptly dropped her teacup, letting it fall and shatter against the stone floor with a _crack_.

Even as Glorfindel was turning around to see the commotion, Lucy was rising unsteadily from her seat, propping herself up on shaky arms as she made to walk towards the door.

"I have to go home now," she said in a daze, not really understanding the words. Her brain didn't seem to be processing her surroundings quite right, and at the moment, going home seemed like a good idea. Her head hurt.

Instantly Glorfindel was beside her, his hands on Lucy's shoulders as he firmly pushed her back to her chair. When she was settled – albeit unwillingly – he crouched down, picking up the shards of her discarded teacup and carefully placing them on the table to keep her from getting cut. The elf lord lifted each of her bare feet in turn, feeling the undersides of them to make sure they hadn't been sliced open by the pottery. Once he seemed satisfied that they hadn't, he stood, returning his attention to the captain. Glorfindel stayed close after that, one of his hands constantly gripping the back of her chair as a cautious measure. Lucy wasn't allowed to get up from her seat, and truthfully she didn't try again.

The elf lord was in serious trouble, and everyone seemed to know this from the nervous looks his household staff were exchanging, yet the golden-haired ellon remained absolutely unconcerned. So long as Lucy didn't move, his utter focus and apparent saint-like calm didn't waver. When the doors to his study suddenly – but inevitably – slammed open, Glorfindel didn't even look up from his maps.

There was a furious elf standing in the doorway, looking about as frazzled and wild-eyed as an elf could appear. His chest was visibly heaving with laboured breaths, his pale cheeks flushed. Morwen was standing just behind the ellon, her features drawn as she nervously wrung the wrist of her right hand. The poor woman looked like she was at her wits' end, and Lucy didn't blame her.

" **You**." said the elf standing in the doorway as he glared at Glorfindel, his words incredulous. It was the same ethereal, black-haired elf lord that had sat beside him in the Council Chamber: the one that had tried to calm him down to no avail. The ellon was dressed in a pale, silvery sort of blue, and his eyes were blue too – a delicate baby blue that was so translucent that they nearly bordered on grey.

Glorfindel finally looked up from his maps, handing the one he was holding over to his captain.

"Ecthelion, pol im asyad?" he asked, his tone innocent. There was no hint of reproach to his voice. Glorfindel's expression was otherworldly in its lack of visible concern. His flaxen-haired captain cast a nervous look towards the elf lord standing in the entrance, but said nothing, bowing quickly with the map in hand as he turned and exited through the door.

The elf called Ecthelion looked ready to strangle someone, preferably Glorfindel.

"Laurëfindil, **why**?" he finally choked out, entering the room. The elf's hair was almost as long as Glorfindel's, whispering behind him as he moved. It was poker straight and dark as ink, shining blue-black beneath the daylight. Lucy was unable to understand the rest of his words as the elf launched into a verbal tirade, other than a sentence along the lines of "I told you not to." Ecthelion's steps were short and erratic as he paced across the room, one of his pale hands carding through his glossy hair as he ranted, his voice growing louder and louder as he turned back and forth, then repeated the circuit. Morwen remained in the doorway behind Ecthelion, standing still as if she were afraid to enter. The tension in the room was so thick that Lucy felt like she was choking on it, and she knew it would only get worse.

"Idhren." Ecthelion spat, grinding his teeth together and back hunching like a furious, hissing cat's. " **Daer** idhren."

Glorfindel let Ecthelion rant without complaint, his eyes lowered and his expression carefully neutral as he squared away his maps, never drifting from Lucy's side. His expression was almost too calm, and Lucy began to suspect it was merely a mask. This was proven true when Ecthelion made a comment in a language that was more melodic than the regular Sindarin, gesturing briefly in Lucy's direction.

Instantly Glorfindel's hand went to Lucy's head, his fingers resting against her crown in an overtly protective gesture. A visible frown marred his features. He was very tense, although he was trying to hide it.

"Alaná cólórya." he said in the same strange elvish tongue. "Lestarya ea."

Ecthelion scoffed, casting Glorfindel an incredulous glance as he continued pacing. When he moved towards them, Glorfindel stepped in front of Lucy to cut the other ellon off, refusing to let him approach. The dark-haired elf pulled up short, letting out a harsh exhale of breath through his nose as he clenched his jaw. His pale blue eyes were frigid, his pupils narrowed to pinpricks. Glorfindel met his gaze head on, unwavering and chin held high. He squared his shoulders as he awaited punishment.

"Glorfindel, hen heria daro." Ecthelion warned, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"No." said the elf lord. Although his voice rang clear, there was the slightest waver to it, as if he was somehow afraid. Lucy didn't know from what.

"Glorfindel." the ellon warned, louder this time.

" **No**." Glorfindel repeated. The waver was stronger.

Without waiting for the elf lord's permission, Ecthelion brusquely reached forward and grabbed Glorfindel by the collar, yanking him violently away from Lucy to berate him. His expression was less than pleased. Glorfindel struggled for a bit, but it was a half-hearted sort of thing, as if he was loath to lay his hands on the other elf. When it became clear that Ecthelion had no interest in Lucy, he stopped fighting altogether, remaining docile under the ellon's grasp. His head bowed, his face turning to the side as he refused to meet the other lord's furious gaze. There was rapid talking between the two parties, with Glorfindel's calm quickly shattering and Ecthelion's anger melting away to reveal sympathy mixed with regret. Glorfindel still wasn't fighting, but he was growing more and more agitated the longer Ecthelion held on to him, his voice beginning to waver noticeably as he tried to free himself through peaceful means. The manner in which he angled himself away from Ecthelion screamed of avoidance; of a deep, entrenched anxiety that had taken root many years before.

"Glorfindel." Ecthelion said sternly, his hands rising to grip either side of Glorfindel's face to keep his head still. "Glorfindel, hen heria **daro**." he repeated. He tried to force the other elf to look at him, but Glorfindel was having none of it.

"No." he said, shaking his head. He hastily reached up, attempting to dislodge Ecthelion's fingers as his hands locked around the other's wrists, but he couldn't seem to escape. Glorfindel was speaking rapidly, and soon his words were thick with distress. Lucy got the impression that the elf lord was trying to explain something, but he wasn't doing a very good job. The problem seemed to be centered deeper than her, although perhaps it was fair to say Lucy was just the latest catalyst in a long line of mistakes. From the lack of reaction from the brown-haired ellon standing in the corner of the room, and from the expression of deep resignation etched across Ecthelion's features, it appeared as if they were used to this sort of behavior.

Morwen was staring at Glorfindel as if he were insane.

"Glorfindel." Ecthelion said slowly, his voice firm. The ellon was picking rather frantically at his companion’s fingertips, but it was an ineffectual sort of _picking_ , full of hopeless frustration. In that moment Glorfindel reminded Lucy of the Glorfindel in her dreams; the one that had clawed at his crown and slit his throat in a spray of blood. Quickly Lucy eyed the blade currently sheathed at the left side of his hip – some sort of curving short sword. It wasn't the greatsword he’d carried with him into the Council Chamber, but it made him no less dangerous. She wasn't the most cognizant of people, nor the most logical, but even Lucy could see the wisdom of divesting someone of any sharp, pointy objects when they seemed close to a nervous breakdown, especially if it was a repeat occurrence. The fact that Glorfindel was still armed was disquieting.

"I want to go now." Lucy repeated, her voice slightly shaking as she gripped the armrests of her chair.

No one heard her, and if they did, they didn't pay attention. Glorfindel was speaking so rapidly he sounded like he was on the verge of the elvish version of stuttering. When he took a step backwards, straining against Ecthelion's hands as he pointed vaguely in Lucy's direction, Ecthelion yanked him forward again, refusing to be swayed.

"Laurëfindil." Ecthelion urged, holding Glorfindel's head still as he tried to get the elf lord to look him in the eye. Glorfindel was trying very hard not to, attempting to speak over the ellon in protest as he pointed in Lucy's direction. "Laurëfindil, uin imya."

"Ten ná." Glorfindel insisted, stumbling slightly under the other ellon's grasp. "Ten **ná**."

"Laurëfindil," the dark-haired elf said in a hissing whisper, gripping Glorfindel's head and shaking it slightly with emphasis. "Qui carildë ala quildë ilmë, Turgon selma savnatyë laiwa."

"He boe dartha sí." Glorfindel continued, completely undaunted despite his lack of calm. He pointed in Lucy's direction, trying to step towards her. Ecthelion wouldn't let him. "He boe."

"Han û cillín." the other lord said firmly. Glorfindel did not like whatever it was that Ecthelion had to say, and protested loudly. While the two were engaged, Morwen finally moved forward, quickly ducking around the elf lords as she made a b-line for Lucy, her skirts wrapping around her legs as she ran. When Morwen reached her she extended her hand, quickly feeling her forehead and tugging Lucy’s nightgown up her shoulder to hide the skin. She pulled Lucy's blankets more firmly around her as Ecthelion tried to talk Glorfindel down.

"Sweetness, are you alright?" Morwen asked in a rush, quickly looking towards the door. She tugged on Lucy's arms, pulling her off the chair and forcing her to stand. Lucy let her, gazing mindlessly towards the escalating altercation. Ecthelion seemed to be running low on patience again, and his voice was rising as a result. Morwen draped her arm around her shoulders, holding her close.

"I want to go home." Lucy told her in a monotonous drone. Morwen nodded automatically, glancing towards the elves with blatant concern. "Of course, Sweetness." she agreed, far too cheerfully. "Of course we'll go back. We'll go to my home, yes? Far away from any Noldor. You can meet my sons. I think you will like that." Briefly, the brown-haired ellon cast a glance in their direction, but he didn't make a move towards them, turning his attention back to his lord. Both Ecthelion and Glorfindel's voices were raised now, although it was hard to tell which one of them was more upset.

"Morwen." Lucy said as the other woman carefully guided the two of them away from the altercation, taking a small step towards the back door. "Why are they yelling?"

"I do not know." Morwen replied, keeping her voice low. "I do not, truly. The Lord Glorfindel, I think he is mad. The things he is saying make no sense."

Lucy thought this was a very astute observation, and told her as such. "I don't like the Noldor." she confessed miserably. "I think someone should take away their swords." Morwen let out a small laugh at this, lightly tinged with hysteria. She seemed about to say something, but at that moment Glorfindel heard them, turning his head in response. When he saw Morwen trying to shuffle Lucy out of the room, his blue eyes widened, his features twisting with panic.

"No." he said, deftly ripping himself free of Ecthelion's grasp and nimbly escaping the other's hands with far more skill than he had utilized before. He stalked towards them, lifting his white-clad arm and pointing at Morwen as he snapped his fingers to get her attention. " **No**." he commanded, lips twisting into a shaky pout. "Ci hehta dín dan!"

Immediately Morwen let go of Lucy and backed away from her until she was standing on the far side of the room, visibly cowering.

"Glorfindel, **stop**." Ecthelion commanded, swiftly striding after the other elf lord. Lucy kept standing, but she was thoroughly terrified of the giant blond elf advancing towards her and that awfully sharp sword he had strapped to his side.

When Glorfindel reached for her, Lucy shied away and dropped to the floor, crawling underneath the table and frantically scurrying out of reach of his hands. The elf lord let out something that sounded like a gentle curse, dropping to his own knees to reach under the table and grab her. As he did so, Ecthelion grasped him by the collar, yanking him upwards and loudly berating the other elf while doing so. Glorfindel began explaining something, but Lucy didn't care what it was. She crawled on her hands and knees until she was as far away from the golden-haired elf lord as she could get. When she hit the wall she stayed there, putting her back to it and curling up in a protective huddle as she glared outwards. Glorfindel and Ecthelion had moved towards the door.

A few minutes later, Lucy felt a hand clamp down on her arm. She nearly screamed aloud, but was stopped from doing so when Morwen slapped her other hand across her mouth, shushing her quietly. She pulled her up from underneath the table, keeping low to the ground as the two of them huddled side by side. The elves seemed to have forgotten that they were there – the initial conflict over Lucy having been passed over for something deeper – but they didn't try to leave again. The atmosphere was far too tense. The argument went on, and on. Lucy wasn't sure if it would ever really stop. Fifteen torturous minutes later, when Ecthelion was back to pacing and Glorfindel had been forced to sit in Lucy's chair, the King of Gondolin arrived. He did not look pleased to be there.

The King appeared as if he had been called there in a hurry, and Turgon's expression was as close to furious as Lucy had ever seen it. His gray eyes were darkened in anger, his brows deeply furrowed. The Noldo prince was dressed in a casual manner, his deep red robes loose and thick as if they were meant for lounging instead of matters of state. There was at least a dozen royal guards accompanying him, and behind the guards Lucy actually spied a peevish looking Anaduilin lurking in the hallway, visibly biting at the inside of his cheek as he glared.

Ecthelion seemed overwhelmingly relieved to see the King. The minute Turgon stepped into the room the ethereal elf bowed low in a shimmering fall of pale blue fabric and glossy black hair. He placed one of his slim hands across his chest as he lowered his gaze in obedience.

"Nín Aran." he began demurely, but with a hint of urgency. "Nanyë ú –"

Turgon silenced him with a firm squeeze to the shoulder, gliding past the smaller ellon and further into the room in a loud rustle of crimson robes. Glorfindel had been forced to sit in Lucy's chair, and was currently slouched like a disobedient child about to receive a scolding. When the King approached he lifted his head, his entire countenance brightening as he stood. His expression was not quite hopeful, but definitely desperate.

Lucy stiffened as he did so, backing away and pushing hard against Morwen's arm slung around her shoulders. She tried to make herself as small as possible. It didn't matter in the end, as Glorfindel seemed to be entirely focused on the King. When he spoke, his tone of voice said as much.

"Nín Aran." he began, but just as soon as he stood Turgon was stepping forward and pushing him down, the action done in a manner that was ironically reminiscent of the same way that Glorfindel had treated Lucy. The elf lord jerkily fell back, his expression a mixture of abject hurt and confusion. Even still he stayed where he was, looking towards the King with puppy-dog eyes as his fingers twitched nervously against his armrests. Glorfindel appeared even younger next to Turgon, and the elf lord's inability to sit still added to this effect. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, and twice the King cut him off with a sharp click of the tongue or a venomous sounding word designed to make him fall silent.

The King paced in front of Glorfindel for a time, saying nothing as his crimson robes dragged across the pristine tiles. His elegant right hand kneaded at his temple as he glared absently at the floor. Eventually he stopped his pacing, but only for a bit, and when he began to move again his wandering was slower, his expression more conflicted than angry. Glorfindel turned his head back and forth to watch the King, the intense blue of his eyes making the hue of his skin seem downright pallid. From where Lucy was huddled on the floor, it appeared that Glorfindel stared at **everything** with the same level of intensity that he had done so with her, or at least the things the he granted importance to. The elf had a debilitating one-track mind.

Turgon finally stopped pacing, standing to the side as he bowed his head, his dark hair spilling down the front of his chest. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The King's entire posture radiated displeasure, but also concern. When he spoke his voice was surprisingly soft.

"Glorfindel, lhaewdhir ad?" he asked. Glorfindel shook his head adamantly, his fingers clenching tightly against the armrests of his chair. His deep blue eyes were wide and round as saucers, his expression horribly honest.

"Û, nín Aran." he said.

"Ú furudhir enni?" Turgon asked, just as softly, his eyes still closed and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounded incredibly weary.

"Û, nín Aran." Glorfindel repeated. Turgon frowned beneath his hand, rubbing at his forehead between his sharply defined brows. When he asked his next question, it was simple enough for Lucy to understand.

"Why?" he said, his voice monotonous with exhaustion. Glorfindel shifted nervously in his seat, his gaze darting apprehensively to the side as his fingers picked self-consciously at the hem of his ivory sleeve.

"Ten pen varna" he declared. Although there was a tremulous waver to his tone, Lucy could detect a reckless sort of strength behind it that made it clear that he believed what he was saying. Turgon's eyes finally opened, and his expression grew even darker. When he spoke again his voice was firm.

"Hen polú vorima, Glorfindel." he said. "Ten ná úthaes."

"Nín Aran –" Glorfindel began, leaning forward in his seat as if to stand.

" **Úthaes**!" Turgon snapped, raising his voice to a yell. "Hehtanë ilquen vi raxë –"

"I did not!" Glorfindel countered, standing despite the insistence of his King, who was back to pacing. Glorfindel shook his head fervently. "Vá haru Gondolin. Vá –"

"He boe dadwen." Turgon said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. Glorfindel paled. Behind the King Ecthelion was standing as rigid as a livewire, gnawing on his thumbnail as he watched the altercation in silence. Glorfindel's expression was distraught.

"No." he countered. "Û, uvarna."

"What's he saying?" Lucy asked Morwen in a hush, dreading the answer. The other woman leaned in, placing her lips next to Lucy's ear as she spoke in a low whisper. "I think the Lord Glorfindel is worried about putting you back in the dungeons." she said.

"Oh." said Lucy. She didn't really know what to say to that.

"Im henia hen ná valdëa andh." the King was saying, his finger pointed in emphasis, his voice firm but entreating for understanding. "Nó im equë ci ú." Glorfindel continued to blanch, the color draining from his cheeks as he shook his head.

"She is a child." he insisted.

"Glorfindel." the King countered, raising his voice again. "Ci ava."

"Please." Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion let out a soft hissing sound of distress that whistled between his teeth, his slim hands rising up to clench nervously in his hair as stared at the other lord with blatant worry. "Laurëfindil." he said in a pleading tone. "Lá daur."

One of the royal guards shifted his weight from foot to foot as he looked towards his King for instruction, and on the other side of the table the brown-haired ellon that had accompanied Glorfindel moved forward. "Hîr nín." he began.

"Please." Glorfindel repeated, keeping his too intense gaze on the King. Turgon was beginning to look fairly furious again.

"No." he said.

Abruptly Glorfindel got down on both knees, bowing so low it was practically supplication, his forehead nearly touching the floor. Turgon did a double take when Glorfindel sunk to the ground, then made a sound of intense displeasure. He clenched one of his hands, using the other to gesture rapidly towards Glorfindel in a manner than made it clear he wanted him to rise.

"Taram." he said, glaring fiercely. Glorfindel stayed where he was, for once completely immobile.

"Lá, nín Aran."

"Glorfindel, **taram**!" Turgon demanded, his voice harsh.

"Please." Glorfindel begged, bowing even lower. His forehead _thunked_ against the tiles. His golden hair spilled across them. "Poldhir ú mentarya dan. Ná alvarna."

As if suddenly realizing that Lucy was still watching, the King looked up towards the back of the room to where she was huddled beside Morwen. Lucy drew her knees up to her chin. Immediately the King raised his arm, turning to the brown-haired ellon as he waved his hand in Lucy's direction.

"E." he said. "Edraith dín." Instead Ecthelion began moving towards Lucy as if to complete the request. Before he could step past the King however, Glorfindel's brown-haired companion was maneuvering deftly around the table, reaching out an inviting hand to Morwen. The ellon spoke softly, a benign smile on his face. The woman watched the elf with blatant suspicious, but eventually nodded in acquiescence and rose with the ellon's hand on her arm. He guided her towards the back door. Morwen pulled Lucy along with her.

As they were standing, Lucy turned her head to look at Glorfindel. He wasn't staring at her for once, and was still on his knees, though his left hand was twitching slightly as if he was desperate to move forward. The King was back to pacing in front of him, his brow furrowed in anger, his voice full of concern as he spoke. A moment later the brown-haired ellon shut the door with a muted _bang_. The wood groaned as it swung inwards, obscuring their view of the main room.

 

It was the last Lucy saw of the King or Glorfindel for hours.

* * *

The room they waited in was much smaller than the last but just as beautiful, the walls made of delicately carved marble, a single window overlooking the city below. From her spot by the awning, Lucy could see the entrance to Glorfindel's estate, the white cobblestone road sloping down towards the lower levels of the city. The sharply pointed roofs of the nearby buildings shone uncomfortably bright against the glare of the sun, and beyond the city she could see the tips of the encircling mountains, rising like a golden-hued ring in the distance. It was late in the afternoon, so the sun was lower in the sky. When Lucy looked to her left, she spied a creeping vine of delicate white flowers clinging to the edge of the window. The bench she and Morwen sat on was made of pale wood and artfully carved, the seat padded with dark blue fabric.

Glorfindel's companion sat with them the entire time, quite benignly and in near-total silence. His ash brown hair reflected a myriad of silvered highlights beneath the fading sun. When Lucy started shivering – as her blankets had been lost in her scramble underneath the table – he fetched her another russet red cover from a nearby cupboard that was sinfully soft. For the rest of the time, he seemed content to sit in his chair and read in contemplative silence.

There was no exit from the room except for the one that they came through. The lack of escape options, Glorfindel's proximity, and Lucy's all-too-recent memories of the creature in the dungeons only served to heighten her paranoia. When the door finally swung open several hours later, she tensed, shirking back in her seat as she eyed the door with fresh despair. The King entered instead of Glorfindel, but Lucy didn't know if she should’ve been grateful.

The Noldo prince paused briefly and looked around the room before he entered, his hand resting against the flat surface of the door. At the King's side was a single royal guard, although Lucy supposed that the rest were waiting outside, as the antechamber was relatively small. Turgon was very tall up close, and standing as he was in the alcove – less than six feet away from Lucy – he made the space feel downright claustrophobic. She swallowed heavily, trying to combat her suddenly dry throat.

Quietly, Glorfindel's companion rose to greet the King, placing a hand across his chest and bowing in greeting. His gaze flickered past the Noldo prince towards the other room, presumably to look for his lord. Exchanging a knowing glance with the brown-haired ellon, the King nodded towards the elf and swung the door wide, letting his arm fall to his side. The ellon quickly step past him into the other room.

Once Glorfindel's companion was gone, the King turned back to Lucy, a complex, somewhat chagrin expression on his face as he came forward and grabbed the departed ellon's chair. Turgon dragged it forward to sit within arm's reach. Once he did he leaned forward, clasping his elegant hands together and resting his arms on his knees. The setting sun glanced off the King's sharply defined cheekbones, throwing the space beneath them into shadows. Lucy's nose was less congested now, and she could tell that the room smelt of slightly damp stone. From the creeping trellis of flowers there was a trilling sound from somewhere amongst the foliage, akin to a cricket chirping.

Turgon began speaking, his voice tired and soft.

"The King wishes to know if you saw it." Morwen translated. "The creature in the dungeons."

Lucy looked down, averting her eyes and clenching her hands against her nightgown. Normally she wasn't one to watch what she said, but her memory of the balrogs was still too vivid, and the way the white, rubbery creature had clung to the ceiling like a crab was uniquely terrifying. When it appeared that Lucy wasn't going to answer the question, the King spoke again.

"One of the guards is missing." Morwen relayed, sounding nervous. "Anaduilin's Third. They have found his sword, but nothing else."

Lucy did speak, then. "I think it ate him."

"Lucy!" Morwen said, her tone aghast. "Why would you say such an awful thing?"

Lucy shrugged, but her assessment felt right, somehow. She could feel it in her bones, the same way she could see what people were like on the inside, assigning values to them like color swatches on a paint rack. The King was watching her avidly, his gray eyes intently fixed upon every minute expression.

"I don't know." Lucy mumbled in response to Morwen’s question. "It looked hungry to me." The other woman translated this. The King sighed and reached up to rub at his forehead. He looked decidedly troubled as he spoke.

"The Lord Glorfindel is very, very worried about you." Morwen admitted, emphasizing the _very_.

"I know." Lucy said. She did know – even she wasn't blind to his focus – but she didn't care.

"The King apologizes for the way Glorfindel has treated you, but the Lord Glorfindel is a very _particular_ elf, yes? He believes very strongly in what is right and wrong, and once he makes up his mind he does not change it. The King does not approve of what the Lord Glorfindel did, but he is in agreement with him that the dungeons are no longer safe."

" **Nowhere** is safe." Lucy said churlishly. "Take me home. I need to speak to Gandalf."

Morwen didn't translate this until the King insisted, and when she did Turgon sighed loudly, partially closing his eyes and rubbing more intensely at his brow. He looked oddly fatherly at that moment. Lucy wasn't sure what to make of this impression.

"Glorfindel says you know him." Morwen translated for the King, frowning heavily as she did so. Lucy frowned too, but for different reasons. "He says he knows you too, and very well. The Lord Glorfindel thinks that he should have a say over what happens to you in the future, because he is the only one that you are familiar with."

"Well, I think he needs to die in a fire." Lucy spat. She couldn't help it. It was such a presumptuous statement on the ellon's part – that **he** should have a say over **her** future – that it had her seeing red. _Elves_. _Goddamn elves._ She was sick of them.

"Lucy!" Morwen chided. "That is not a kind thing to say." But Lucy was already kneading at her blanket in distress, clenching her teeth hard. The King watched her with a calculating gaze, but also one of sympathy, as if he actually understood her plight. Lucy was almost positive that he didn't. No one could. She was alone, Tommy was dead, and there was no one to rescue her from this hellhole. It was almost enough to bring her to tears.

"I don't care," she said shakily. "I don't. He doesn't know me and he's lying, he's lying and I hate him. He can't tell me what to do. It's his fault I'm here."

Morwen looked hesitant when she spoke. "Sweetness," she began gently, but with a hint of reproach. "You **do** realize you have spoken different truths more than once, yes? Even now, you tell the King that you know the Lord Glorfindel. Then you say that you don't. It makes your words seem false."

"Yes." _No._ She hadn't realized she was giving them different stories at different times, but she wasn't going to admit it now. "I'm not lying." Lucy insisted desperately, looking up and trying to plead with her eyes. “Please. I want to go home.”

The King spoke. Morwen translated.

"The King does not think Glorfindel is lying either, Sweetness." the woman warned. "He says the Lord Glorfindel never lies. He is too honest and very poor at telling falsehoods. Everyone knows this. But you work for a creature that is made of nothing but lies. It is not good, in this case."

Lucy lifted her chin, glaring at the King with more confidence than she felt. "So?" she said. "I don't care. He's lying. He **is**."

"He is not." Morwen translated for Turgon. "The King does not approve of the Lord Glorfindel's methods, but he does trust him, and in light of recent events he is inclined to grant his request. It is... the best of bad options? I think that is how one says it."

A horrible _tenseness_ sprung to life beneath Lucy's breastbone; an almost suffocating sort of apprehension that nearly caused her to vomit. "What request?" she asked, shifting her gaze rapidly back and forth from one individual to another. When the King responded, he ran one of his elegant hands through his hair. The glossy locks rustled and fell over his broad shoulder.

"Right now you are the King's Ward, yes?" Morwen said. "The Lord Glorfindel, he wishes to adopt you into the House of the Golden Flower. He has been asking this for weeks. As you have no next of kin, and you are familiar with him, by Gondolin's laws he has the right."

Lucy felt the bottom of her stomach drop out beneath her, her lungs constricting violently. She couldn't breathe. "No." she said tremulously, then began shaking her head back and forth. "No. I refuse! Tell him I refuse! I don't want to do it!"

"You cannot." Morwen said sadly, her expression apologetic. "Amongst the Noldor children have no rights until their majority, and the King can no longer deny his request. You are in his care until they find a better solution."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness, for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> There's a fair amount of Quenya this time – some purposeful, some used to complete sentences where there was no Sindarin equivalent. So, beware of bad Sindarin and Quenya grammar.
> 
> EDIT: I've been asked if it would be possible to write down who says what in each line in the glossary. Normally I wouldn't as everything's in chronological order, but it's a simple enough edit and the glossary is pretty big this time. 
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ecthelion, pol im asyad – Ecthelion, can I help you
> 
> [Ecthelion] Idhren. Daer idhren – Unwise. Horribly unwise
> 
> [Glorfindel] Alaná cólórya. Lestarya ea – It is not her burden/fault. Leave her be (Quenya)
> 
> [Ecthelion] Glorfindel, hen heria daro – Glorfindel, this must stop
> 
> [Ecthelion] Laurëfindil, uin imya – Laurëfindil, it's not the same (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ten ná – It is
> 
> [Ecthelion] Qui carildë ala quildë ilmë, Turgon selma savnatyë laiwa – If you do not calm yourself, Turgon will think you are ill (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] He boe dartha sí. He boe – She needs to stay here. She must
> 
> [Ecthelion] Han û cillín – That is not your choice
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ci hehta dín dan – You put her back
> 
> [Ecthelion] Nín Aran. Nanyë ú – My King. I am not - (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Turgon] Glorfindel, lhaewdhir ad – Glorfindel, are you sick again
> 
> [Glorfindel] Û, nín Aran – No, my King
> 
> [Turgon] Ú furudhir enni – You are not lying to me
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ten pen varna – It wasn't safe
> 
> [Turgon] Hen polú vorima, Glorfindel. Ten ná úthaes – This cannot continue, Glorfindel. It is wrong (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Turgon] Hehtanë ilquen vi raxë – You put everyone in danger (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Vá haru Gondolin. Vá – I would never hurt Gondolin. Never (Quenya)
> 
> [Turgon] He boe dadwen – She must go back
> 
> [Glorfindel] Û, uvarna – No, it's not safe (Quenya)
> 
> [Turgon] Im henia hen ná valdëa andh. Nó im equë ci ú – I understand this is important to you. But I told you no (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Turgon] Ci ava – You will not
> 
> [Ecthelion] Lá daur – Please stop
> 
> [Glorfindel's seneschal] Hîr nín – My Lord
> 
> [Turgon] Taram – Stand up
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lá, nín Aran – Please, my King
> 
> [Turgon] Glorfindel, taram – Glorfindel, stand up
> 
> [Glorfindel] Poldhir ú mentarya dan. Ná alvarna – You cannot send her back. It is not safe (Quenya) 
> 
> [Turgon] E. Edraith dín – Out. Get her out


	12. Misguided Attempts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 24, 2016

When Tommy read _The Lord of the Rings_ for the very first time, she had told Lucy about Glorfindel.

"He's amazing." Tommy had babbled one lazy summer afternoon, her rounded cheeks flushed with more than the heat. "I mean, he's like… I don't know. You just have to read it, Lucy. You have to. He's so beautiful."

Lucy had scowled at Tommy when she'd said this. Back then they were only thirteen, but already she was a horribly jealous person by nature.

The two of them had been sitting beneath the oak tree in Lucy's front yard, dressed in bathing suits and licking their way through an entire box of popsicles. Lucy wasn't fond of sugar, but the humidity had been unbearable that day and a power outage the night before – brought on by a summer thunderstorm – had put the air conditioner on the fritz. It’d been the only way the two of them were able to cool down without melting into puddles of sweat on the asphalt.

Always, Lucy had been obsessive and thrived on attention. Even though she'd been unable to differentiate between _love_ and _fixation_ at the time, she had known instinctively that she liked Tommy as far more than a friend, and hadn't wanted to share the girl with others. Lucy didn't want to share **any** of her toys, and the minute Tommy began talking about somebody else with a flush to her cheeks, she had found herself drowning in jealousy. It wasn’t fair.

"He's not real." Lucy had mumbled into her popsicle. Tommy hadn't cared for an instant.

"I wish he was." she’d countered, her cheeks reddening further. Tommy's short, slightly tanned hands had twisted excitedly around the cover of her well-worn book. “Imagine meeting someone like that. Oh my god, can you imagine? I mean, that would be so cool."

Lucy was more than a little disquieted.

When she fell for people, she fell for them **hard** , and back then Lucy had wanted a symbiotic, co-dependent relationship between the two of them. She had made some gains towards this outcome, but for the most part her advances had remained largely unsuccessful. As Tommy continued talking, Lucy had decided to blame this lack of success on the false ideal of Glorfindel.

The elf lord **was** an ideal, of course. He was Saint George and the Dragon, only the dragon was a balrog and he was an elf: a golden idol, propped up as a moral compass by some doddering author to act as a symbol. In Lucy's eyes, Glorfindel was nothing more than some pretty paper angel, but to Tommy he was a representation of all she wanted and had yet to acquire. As her best friend talked about the elf lord in detail, the more Lucy became convinced that it was impossible to be that kind-hearted and beautiful. She was exceptionally pretty herself, but she was also blatantly and unabashedly rotten. The notion that she might be unwanted because of it hurt terribly.

"I love you more." she'd said impulsively, the popsicle forgotten and melting across her fingers. "Glorfindel can't. He's not real." Tommy had blithely ignored her confession.

"You'll see." Tommy had continued carelessly, _The Lord of the Rings_ clutched lovingly between her hands. "You'll see when you read the books. He's in _The Silmarillion_ , too. Oh god, imagine if he really **was** real? I think I would literally die from happiness. I mean, I don't know what I would say to him."

On the air there’d been the sound of cicadas and the whirring of lawnmowers, intermingling with the chirping of nearby birds. "You could probably say anything." Lucy had snapped, full of spite. "He's perfect, isn't he? He'll be nice to you no matter what you say."

In hindsight, the truth behind those words was painful.

Lucy hadn't expected Glorfindel to be as kind as Tommy had said he would be: nor as lovely, and definitely not as faithful. The elf lord wasn't perfect, but he was probably as close to perfect as a living being could get. And Lucy? Lucy's free pass was gone. Every moment she spent around Glorfindel was a reminder that she would never live up to the benchmarks that he had set, both internal and external. She felt cheated.

* * *

With much pomp but little ceremony Lucy went from being a prisoner to Glorfindel's cherished ward. Almost instantly, the elf lord was turned into her guardian and pseudo family member. From the quiet, fervid look of determination on his face when this was announced, it seemed to be a role the ellon didn't plan to give up unless someone forced him to by the sword.

Despite what Tommy had said– how she had gone on and on about how perfect the elves were and how amazing it was to be around them – Lucy found this arrangement to be less than ideal. She had traded her stone cell for a gilded one, and very quickly she learned several things about elven society. One of those was that saying the Noldor were "fond of children" was an understatement. They absolutely adored them. Lucy didn't know if this obsessive focus was a cultural trait or something brought on by genetics, but she supposed if she'd lived for thousands of years and only saw children for a handful of those, she would have been obsessed with the pint-sized walking disasters, too. Every child was kept under lock and key, jealously hoarded by their caretakers like dragons guarding piles of treasure. Lucy had the misfortune of being snatched up by one of the bigger, more dangerous dragons of Gondolin. A very rich one, with too many swords and too much time on his hands.

After her meeting with the King, Lucy was removed from the antechamber and immediately led to her room. With her were Morwen and the elleth she had seen on the steps when Glorfindel had first brought her there: the female twin with the dark yellow dress. Glorfindel wasn't far off, of course. Once the King had officiated the transfer – he was borrowing her **only** , he said, and only until she reached her majority – Glorfindel had surreptitiously flitted around Lucy like an over-excited bird. Turgon was still furious with him, and as such the elf lord was comically trying to be on his best behavior without appearing too ecstatic.

While the elleth – whose name was Aeloth – ushered Lucy into her room, the elf lord remained in the hallway, fidgeting and shifting his weight from foot-to-foot as the King berated him. The Noldo prince was ranting on about what seemed to be a very long list of transgressions. When Lucy entered the chamber, Morwen followed her through the door.

Inside the room was beautiful. The entire thing was so lavishly appointed it was ostensibly fit for a princess. Along the far side of the chamber were six cathedral-like windows overlooking the mountains, each resting side by side. The floor was resplendent with intricate rugs that ranged from deep amber to baby blue in color, and above them the marble ceiling was carved to resemble the interlocking branches of a pair of trees. On the left side of the room there was a giant canopied bed, piled high with pale yellow duvets and pillows. From the center of the chamber hung delicate glass lanterns, and on the right side of the room next to a built-in closet were a dresser, mirror and stool. Everywhere, Lucy saw toys.

There were golden balls and twine jumping ropes, wooden toy blocks and beautifully crafted dolls. Near the windows there was a child-sized harp, and in another corner Lucy spied what looked like the elven version of a dollhouse. Aeloth was standing beside the bed, her hands clasped in front of her as she smiled benignly at Lucy. Beside her on the covers was laid out a brand new nightgown and dressing robe. Everything in the chamber was meticulously planned, and Lucy knew there was no way Glorfindel could have pulled it off in a single afternoon. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she felt sick.

From the bed there was a soft mewling sound, and Lucy spied a ball of white. The fuzzy mass slowly unfurled, standing on shaky legs as it toddled towards Aeloth. It was a kitten. A tiny kitten, barely old enough to walk and pale as snow.

"What the fuck is this?" Lucy spat.

Morwen – who knew Lucy had already had a very long day and was close to snapping –noticeably tensed, translating the words to Aeloth. In the hallway the King continued to berate Glorfindel.

"The Lord Glorfindel does not wish for you to want for anything." Morwen said for the elleth. "He is a very generous host. Your rooms have been prepared for some time now, but the King refused to let Glorfindel keep you here. This was because of… of other circumstances."

"Oh my god." Lucy deadpanned, just as the kitten mewled from the bed. "He’s stalking me."

"Lucy!" admonished Morwen sharply. "Glorfindel is an elf lord **,** and he is now your benefactor. The King could have kept you in the dungeons forever. You must behave yourself –"

"He's a stalker." Lucy insisted, so furious her vision was beginning to blur and her teeth were starting to chatter. "He planned this. He **planned** this! Why do I have a cat?!"

"He is an elf." Morwen said; as if that alone would it explain it, although her voice was trembling too, now. Lucy stormed over to the bed. She clambered up the side of the canopied monstrosity, rudely kicking the nightgown and dressing robe to the floor. The kitten mewled and fell over.

"Lucy, _Lucy_ –" Morwen continued, raising her hands in placation and rushing forward to try and calm her down. "He is an elf, Sweetness. The elves, they live for a very long time. They become very focused on things, and they do not understand – Sweetness, please stop!"

"I don't care!" Lucy said, standing up in the middle of her brand new bed and picking up the nearest pillow. She chucked it at Morwen in a fit of petulant rage. The woman ducked and squeaked in distress. Aeloth reached over and plucked the kitten off the bed before Lucy could step on it. Lucy threw a pillow at her, too.

"He's a stalker." she repeated, so upset that her limbs were shaking. She was on the verge of bursting into tears, and she had never felt more helpless in her entire life. "He's a creeper! I hate him and I hate the elves and I want to go home!"

Lucy looked over at Glorfindel standing in the doorway, talking quietly to the King. "YOU HEAR THAT?" she screamed at him, and both elves looked up. "YOU'RE A STALKER! YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME OR I'LL BRING THE BALROGS HERE! I HATE YOU! I **HATE** YOU!"

And then, Lucy started to cry.

She hadn't really cried since she'd been stuck on the mountain with Tommy, but Lucy was so tired and worn down and on edge that she abruptly burst into tears. She collapsed in the middle of her bed, bawling with impotent fury. Immediately Glorfindel rushed forward to help.

"Lucy!" he soothed as Lucy sniveled and moaned, reaching for her with an open expression. He looked hurt by her words, but Lucy knew there was no way he could’ve understood them. Maybe it was safer to say that he knew she was angry with him, although he seemed more concerned with calming her down. "Lucy, mana raeg?" he asked.

With a furious sob Lucy grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at the elf lord. Even though it wasn't nearly enough to stop him, Glorfindel seemed so surprised that she had thrown something that he actually came to a halt. Spurred on by his inaction, Lucy picked up another pillow, then a doll, and threw those at him too. The pillow bounced harmlessly off the elf lord, but the priceless toy shattered into porcelain pieces against the floor.

Glorfindel simply stood there in the center of the room, looking at her with a stunned expression.

" **Mine**." Lucy snarled, throwing another pillow. It was enough to finally force the elf lord to take a faltering step back. Hopping down off the bed, still sobbing, Lucy scurried forward and picked up the pillow she had thrown at Morwen, hurling it at the ellon. Morwen had fled the room, and now Aeloth followed her example, taking the kitten in hand. The King watched the entire altercation with an avid expression from the hallway.

"Lucy –" The elf lord began.

"Mine!" Lucy said as she stalked towards Glorfindel, tossing another pillow as she stepped through the broken shards of the doll. The porcelain cut open the pads of her feet, and soon she was tracking blood across the floor. She didn't care. She was in the midst of a full-blown fit. Lucy hadn't had one in over a year, as they were somewhat rare, but when she did break down her tantrums were absolutely terrifying in their ferocity.

"Lucy," Glorfindel begged belated. "Lá daro –"

Lucy let out an incoherent scream, rushing forward and beating her fists against his front as she tried to force him back. She barely came up to the middle of Glorfindel's chest, but the elf lord seemed so shocked by her behavior that he stood there numbly, letting her rail against him. His eyes were glassy looking as he took another faltering step backwards.

"Lucy, _please_ –"

"MINE!" Lucy repeated as she beat ineffectually against his chest. "MINE! MINE! MINE! YOU STAY OUT OF MY ROOM! THIS IS MY ROOM! MINE! YOU CAN'T HAVE TOMMY! I WON'T LET YOU!"

The elf lord's movements were brittle and sluggish, and when Lucy placed both her hands against his chest and pushed, Glorfindel actually tripped over his own feet. When he finally stumbled out of the room, Lucy immediately slammed the door in his face, pressing her back to it as she continued sobbing. On the other side the elf lord began knocking, pleading with her to let him enter, but he didn't try to force his way through. Lucy glared with murderous paranoia towards the empty corners of the chamber as he spoke.

"Lucy," he said. She could hear the hurt in his voice over the sound of her own sobbing. "Lucy, please. Edrafen."

She knew he wanted her to open the door, but didn't. Glorfindel knocked for a time, but after a while that faded too. Soon all Lucy could hear was her own exhausted, hiccup-prone sniffling, mingling with the gentle rustle of the bedroom curtains wafting back and forth in the breeze. Even then, it wasn't until the sun had finally set that she moved.

She avoided the beautiful bed and the beautiful dolls, the lovely toys and the exquisite clothes that had been meticulously laid out for her. For a brief second, Lucy eyed the open windows, arched and delicate, and contemplated throwing herself out of them just to spite the elf lord. A moment later she decided against it. It would be pointless if he wasn't there, and she wanted to make him hurt.

That night, Lucy crawled under her bed and huddled into a ball to sleep. She felt safer in the darkness.

* * *

The next morning rose with the delicate chirping of sparrows flitting about outside her window, mingled with the distant screech of an eagle circling high above. The cacophony of bird calls was familiar, and for a moment Lucy forget where she was and imagined herself to be back in her bed at home. She covered her ears with her hands, curling up further and grumbling expletives. Lucy was a late riser, and during school days her mother would always barge into her room and open her window to let in the sound of the birds. She rubbed at her eyes, muttering aloud that her mother should close the curtains. It wasn't a school day, she decided. It was a Saturday, and her mother had no right to be in her bedroom at this hour.

When the windows weren't closed and the chirping increased, it took Lucy an ungodly amount of time to realize exactly where she was. After she **did** , it left a bitter, piquant taste of too-sharp lemons in her mouth, as the knowledge that she was still in Middle-earth was completely unpalatable. She didn't want to live with Glorfindel. The thought of being around him for extended periods of time made her sick. Sleeping under the bed was somewhat like sleeping in the dungeons, in that everything was cold and hard and dark, but even with those similarities it was still fundamentally different. Lucy couldn't see the sun from where she was, but the light in the room was strong enough to stain the bed skirt a golden yellow. The tiles beneath her were devoid of dust, and above her she could see the arched wooden ribs of the bedspring. Her shoulder and the side that she had slept on ached. Her hair was a mess.

Cautiously, Lucy scooted her way across the tiled floor to the edge of the bed, lifting up the brocade fabric to peer into the room itself. The chamber was exactly the way she had left it the evening before, with porcelain shards still scattered across the floor and pillows upended over the intricate carpets. She saw no Glorfindel or Aeloth, and no Morwen. From what she could tell, her room was empty. Lucy wriggled out from underneath the bed.

The sunlight in her room was bright, but not blinding. Outside Lucy could see the sky was slightly overcast. The mountains were a muted hue of pale orange in the distance, and far above she could see the eagles soaring. There were smaller birds clinging to nearby rooftops, but beyond the cry of the birds and the sharp clang of a blacksmith's hammer the sounds of the city were minimal. The silence was eerie, as the noise within the dungeons had actually been louder. When no one emerged from the shadows to startle her, Lucy took a tentative step forward, limping sharply when a sudden pain shot through both her feet. The soles of them throbbed uncomfortably, and it wasn't until she remembered that she'd stepped through the shards of the doll that Lucy recalled how she'd cut them. Trying to lighten her weight by limping awkwardly from side to side, she took another step. As she did so, her ankle brushed against something soft and silk-like.

Lucy looked down, her hands spread out for balance. The satin-like material came from her dressing robe and nightgown still crumpled on the floor. Cautiously she leaned forward, picking up the robe and clenching it between her hands as she brought it closer for inspection. The garment was beautiful, made from a pale aquamarine satin interwoven with delicate patterns of silver thread. It had obviously been made with a great deal of care, and when Lucy opened the robe, letting it unfurl between her hands so that the hem brushed along the floor, she was disturbed to find that it was almost her exact size. The item would fit her, unlike the shapeless white nightgowns she’d been given since day one. Suddenly, the air in the room was stifling.

Her throat feeling thick, Lucy quickly dropped the dressing robe as if it’d burned her, skittering around it on unsteady, aching feet. She fumbled her way towards the door. Lucy didn't know what she was going to do once she got to the hallway, but she wasn't chained anymore, and her door wasn't locked. Even though her feet were hurting, she intended to make use of her newfound freedom, however short lived it was.

Hands clasped around one of the intricate handles, she pulled inwards, the left door creaking loudly on its hinges as it swung towards her. Lucy poked her head through the widening crack. Almost immediately she found Glorfindel sitting on a nearby bench just outside the entrance. Her first response was to close the door, and she almost did, but Glorfindel didn't seem to be moving.

The elf lord was alone, dressed in the same clothes that he had been wearing the night before. He was slightly hunched over; one hand resting limply atop his knee while the other was braced to his forehead, his long fingers covering his eyes. Glorfindel's hair was loose, and leaning forward as he was it fell around him to pool into golden whorls across the bench. Once again, one of his delicate ears was poking through the fall of it, and Lucy was struck by how inhuman his features were, yet unnervingly human at the same time. The subtle distortion was off-putting.

She remained where she was, clutching the edge of the door as she balanced her weight on one leg. The elf lord didn't seem like he was going to move, so Lucy settled for simply standing. She wished he would leave so she could sit down. The cuts along the bottom of her feet hadn't been cleaned, and the flesh around them now felt uncomfortably hot. The slightest amount of pressure was painful. Briefly, she contemplated asking Glorfindel for some bandages so she could fix them herself, but almost immediately she shot the idea down. Morwen wasn't there to translate for her, and Lucy got the distinct impression that engaging the elf lord on any level would be a complicit sign of _acceptance_. She didn't want that. From the way the ellon stiffened when the door creaked open, she could tell that he knew she was there. Still, he had yet to raise his head. Lucy didn't know if she should have been concerned by this; whenever he was near, Glorfindel always looked at her with great intensity, and the fact that he wasn't seemed to be slightly out of character.

Eventually, he did look up. It was a slow, painful movement, with both of his hands falling to rest limply across his knees as he turned his head towards her. The elf lord did not look well. It was a subtle thing, as he was lovely as always, but there was a slight discoloration around his eyes, and his gaze itself was unfocused. His voice was distant as he spoke.

"Ná hen nín paimë?" he asked. "An aledraith ci?"

Lucy got the impression that he was thinking of something else, but the way that he spoke and the tone of his voice made it clear that he was talking about the two of them. From the expression that was slowly making its way across his features, it looked as if the elf lord was finally coming to terms with the fact that she couldn't speak Sindarin – a cultural divide that he had seemed to disregard before. Glorfindel smiled, but it was a brittle gesture, full of an aged sort of sadness. Suddenly, the elf lord seemed very old and very young all at the same time.

"Im olor o le." he said, looking towards his hands. His slim fingers uncurled to rest limply atop his lap. "Im hyamana Illúvatar an tuluidë ata, anat essë dartha dínen."

Briefly, the elf lord fidgeted, his fingers twitching like dying things in the last throws of life, but then they stilled. He swallowed visibly, looking up at some random point on the wall, then back to Lucy. In the gentle daylight streaming in from a nearby open window, his skin seemed to glow.

"Im ava anna am." Glorfindel said, his lips pursing together and his vivid blue gaze sharpening with a painful sort of determination. "Im innas carha téna." His whole complexion was off, Lucy realized belatedly. The sun hid it well, but he was noticeably paler, like the time he had been arguing with the King. Morbidly, she wondered what Glorfindel’s reaction would've been if she’d actually jumped out the window. There was no guilt attached to the thought, nor glee. It was a mechanical thing, a form of clinical curiosity where Lucy was struck with the sudden urge to calculate the results and peel back his skin, so she could see what he was like on the inside.

_He would be the same_ , Lucy thought. The elf lord seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, and there was not a single drop of subterfuge about him.

Lucy shifted her weight from foot to foot as she regarded the elf, wincing as she did so. Glorfindel's complexion remained off, but his focus returned as he seemed to pick up on her discomfort. His gaze fell to her feet. Sheepishly, Lucy hid one foot behind the other, hunching slightly as she partially obscured her face against the door. Her feet ached, but she wasn't going to ask him for help. For a second Lucy actually missed Limbrethil's mothering. She wouldn't have had to ask for anything, then.

"Ci mala?" Glorfindel said, his voice slightly more lively with concern. There was no hint of reproach to his voice, nor judgement. He looked up, meeting her gaze head on. When Lucy didn't answer, continuing to glare at him from in-between the doors, Glorfindel stood gracefully, rising in a soft rustle of pale clothing as he straightened to his full height. He started walking towards her. Lucy tensed and took a wary step back.

As Glorfindel reached for her, all Lucy could focus on were his hands. They were beautiful hands, raw boned and fine, his wrists covered by the cuffs of his sleeves and the motion of his fingers fluid as he moved towards her. Lucy flinched, and the beautiful hands stopped moving, hovering in midair. When she didn't retreat any further, Glorfindel reached for her again.

Quickly, before Lucy could have time to dart away, the elf lord leaned down and picked her up in a single motion, carrying her back into the room. Lucy let out a startled cry and a hiss of displeasure, flailing around when he did so. When it became clear that she wasn't going to be able to escape, she settled for turning stiff as a board and being as difficult as possible, even as Glorfindel tried to prevent her from falling headfirst onto the floor. He didn't hold her for long. When the ellon deposited her atop the bed, Lucy quickly scurried away from him to huddle on the other side, hunching up against her pillows and watching him with a fugitive glare. Glorfindel watched in return. He seemed sad as he gazed at the distance between them, but didn't try to approach again.

With exaggerated care, the elf lord leaned down and picked up her dressing robe and nightgown, gently smoothing his hands across the garments and staring at each item in contemplative silence before placing them on the farthest edge of the bed. Afterwards he went about the room, collecting pillows and shards of porcelain, which clinked softly between his hands. He placed the pillows on the bed and the shards on top of Lucy's dresser, before stepping out into the hallway. The ellon left the door ajar, not looking at her in the process. For a minute Lucy thought Glorfindel had left for good. This hope was dashed when the elf lord returned a few moments later with Aeloth in tow. The elleth was dressed in silver that morning, her long hair loose and her expression a mask of calm. Between her hands was a small satchel of sorts, similar to the one that Lucy had seen Limbrethil carrying about when she was still stuck in the dungeons. Aeloth spoke a few warm words, moving slowly as she neared Lucy's bed. Glorfindel hung back, watching the entire altercation with an avid, slightly peakish expression. Still, Lucy remained tense as the elleth approached.

Her fears were allayed somewhat when Aeloth opened her pack in an exaggerated gesture to show what was inside. Lucy recognized bandages and medical supplies, along with a bottle of that thick green paste that smelt like rosewater. When she realized the elleth had been brought in to help her, it relaxed her more. Enough that she let Aeloth approach.

The elleth went about fixing Lucy's feet. The cuts on them weren't as bad as the injuries she’d suffered when she’d fallen off the mountain, nor the burns she’d gotten along her back when she’d seen the balrogs. Still, they were deep enough that they warranted attention. Lucy winced when Aeloth used what looked like a pair of tweezers to pull a small shard of porcelain from the bottom of her right foot. In the morning light, the elleth’s silver dress shimmered with every subtle movement, her sleeves slit open to her shoulders to reveal her milk-white arms. She smelt of lilies, her ash brown hair poker straight and silky as it tumbled towards the bed. The elleth was very lovely, but there was something timeless about her movements that made her seem very old. Lucy was struck with the impression that Aeloth was actually older than Glorfindel, although she had nothing to back this up other than a vague gut instinct.

Surreptitiously, Lucy shot a glance towards the elf lord. The ellon was standing like a wraith behind the elleth's shoulder, watching in silence as she took each of Lucy's feet and applied a salve. He seemed returned to his usual countenance, but his expression was far from pleasant. That, combined with his twitching fingers and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot made Lucy think that he desperately wanted to move, or was deeply displeased with something.

As Aeloth tucked the edge of Lucy's final bandage into the rest of her wrappings, the elf lord suddenly made a move towards them. It wasn't sudden in that he moved too quickly, but sudden in the fact that he seemed to forget himself, his left hand rising as he reached towards her.

Lucy reacted badly to it. Immediately she shied away from both of the elves, ripping her foot out of Aeloth's grasp and scrabbling backwards until her back thudded against the headboard. Above them the delicate glass lanterns tinkled like the clatter of wind chimes in a slight breeze, and for a moment that was all that could be heard.

Aeloth remained still for a moment, her expression glacial as she stared at the empty spot where Lucy had been. A moment later, she turned away, packing up the rest of her supplies with an air of unconcern. Glorfindel kept staring. There was a terrible sort of nakedness to his expression that made Lucy want to look away; a moment of exposure where all she could sense from him was a profound feeling of failure, mixed with abject sadness and shame. The blue of his irises were so bright it was like looking at a pair of polished gemstones that had been placed in someone's skull in lieu of eyeballs. The deep chroma was unnatural.

"Lucy –" he began, taking another step towards her as he reached for her again. Lucy slapped his hand away, shirking even further and clenching her other fist in the front of her shift. "Don't touch me!" she spat. She knew he couldn't understand her words, but he could definitely get the gist of them from the tone of her voice, and that's what counted.

Glorfindel's expression became even more convoluted, his lips pursing into a frown. He kept on staring, his arms falling to rest at his sides. The air of sadness that clung to him was so thick that Lucy could almost taste it, and when he didn’t move Aeloth sighed, straightening up and turning towards the ellon. She said something to Glorfindel in a mothering tone, her words slightly chastising. When the elf lord continued staring, his gaze dull and his complexion sallow, the elleth reached over and ran her hand up and down his arm in comfort, before gently drawing him away.

Glorfindel followed mechanically, remaining unresponsive as the elleth explained something in a low, passive voice. She kept her hand on his bicep, leaning forward to try and meet his gaze. Glorfindel refused to let her, stubbornly staring at some inexplicable point in the room. Lucy watched the pair suspiciously. When the elf lord eventually responded, his tone was dull. The two conversed with each other for several minutes, and Lucy understood none of it until Aeloth mentioned "Sauron," followed by something that suspiciously sounded like "Morgoth."

Instantly Glorfindel's expression darkened, his hands curling into fists so tight his knuckles bleached white. The air in the room seemed to grow thick, like the gathering of moisture before a thunderstorm.

"Ten ná **în** úthaes." the elf lord spat, his voice shaking with too much emotion. " **E** tyarsen." He sounded furious, his behavior rapidly devolving into what Lucy had witnessed in the map room when he’d been confronted by Ecthelion. Immediately Aeloth reached out, trying to capture the elf lord's attention as she spoke again in a calming tone. Glorfindel refused to meet her gaze.

"Ci boe anna ná lû." Aeloth urged. Lucy had no idea what was going on.

"Im ava gohena ná." Glorfindel insisted harshly. "Im innas dag hé. Im **innas**." Aeloth looked alarmed at his words, and when she spoke her tone of voice said as much.

"Carú caro ma úgarth." she warned, but Glorfindel was already shaking off her hand in an agitated manner, striding quickly from the room. As he passed around the bed towards the exit, Lucy briefly got a glimpse of his face. His expression was tormented. When the door slammed shut behind him, Aeloth sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Not very long this time. Beware the bad Sindarin grammar.
> 
> Lucy, mana raeg – Lucy, what's wrong
> 
> Lá daro – Please stop
> 
> Lucy, please. Edrafen – Lucy, please. Open the door
> 
> Ná hen nín paimë – Is this my punishment (Partial Quenya)
> 
> An aledraith ci – For not finding/rescuing you
> 
> Im olor o le. Im hyamana Illúvatar an tuluidë ata, anat essë dartha dínen – I dreamed about you. I prayed to Illúvatar to bring you back, but he stayed silent. (Predominantly Quenya)
> 
> Im ava anna am – I won't give up
> 
> Im innas carha téna – I will make it right
> 
> Ci mala – (Are) you hurt (Partial Quenya)
> 
> Ten ná în úthaes – It is his fault
> 
> E tyarsen – He caused this
> 
> Ci boe anna ná lû – You must give it time
> 
> Im ava gohena ná – I won't forgive it
> 
> Im innas dag hé. Im innas – I'll kill him. I will
> 
> Carú caro ma úgarth – Do not do something foolish (rough translation)


	13. Lurking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 24, 2016

In hindsight, it was startling how fast Lucy transitioned from being a prisoner to Glorfindel's ward.

It wasn't surprising in how well she adjusted, per say – Lucy **didn't** , and the process was full of pitfalls – but Glorfindel's household staff seemed to accept her with nary a complaint, beyond those that were voiced in the initial meeting. Within a day, the elves were acting like Lucy had always been there. They were distant with her, and some were far less friendly than others, but on average they treated her no differently than anyone else, save that they tried to handle her mood swings with more compassion – perhaps on the prompting of Glorfindel.

Lucy remained inconsolable.

She didn't sob and scream like she had the first night, but even the slightest thing would set her off; an elf approaching her, perhaps, or someone speaking. By the second day she refused to let anyone near, including Morwen. She didn't leave her bed or bathe, and when Aeloth brought her dinner, Lucy threw it against the wall. The only thing she **didn't** try to do was escape; the move from the dungeons had zapped her energy and what little optimism she had left. She was consumed by catatonia.

Glorfindel was very busy, but Lucy wasn't entirely insensible. She knew that even though he was usually occupied, he lurked when he could, and when he wasn't lurking he was getting other people to do it for him. If she tried to flee, it would only be a matter of time before he found her. Oddly enough, Lucy missed Maeglin and his ever-present negligence most of all. His constant distance seemed like a breath of fresh air compared to Glorfindel's smothering attention, as the golden elf's mark was on every aspect of the estate; from the lifelike flowers that adorned Lucy's ceiling to the blond-haired elves that made up the majority of his household. Everywhere she looked, she could see traces of him.

_Eat_ , Aeloth would urge, and each time Lucy refused her. When Morwen came to her room on the third day, Lucy's only response was to demand that Maeglin come and rescue her. The King was a traitor, she decided. Glorfindel had broken the law, and Turgon had capitulated, so therefore he was weak and couldn't be trusted. Maeglin was a lord, and the King's nephew aside. If anyone could get rid of Glorfindel for her, it would be him; her Dead-Eyed Knight to the rescue, only she hadn't told Maeglin he was her knight, yet, and Lucy was probably the worst maiden ever.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Morwen came once more. Glorfindel wasn't with her, but Aeloth was standing by the door. Behind them stood her twin brother Aearmarth; Glorfindel's seneschal that Lucy had met on the steps of the keep. Morwen looked lovely that afternoon, dressed in shades of purple done in an elvish style. The veil she wore over her hair was a dark yellow in color, interwoven with little pearls and crosshatched with lavender thread. Her expression, however, was frosty.

Lucy watched her listlessly from the far side of the bed, lying flat on her stomach with her face pressed to her pillows. She hadn't moved in almost a full day, and although she wasn't sobbing outright, her face was still wet with tears.

"This must cease." Morwen said, her voice sharp with reproach. Her hands were clenched tightly together in front of her. "This behavior is unbecoming. It is enough."

"I don't want to." Lucy whined. She was miserable, and she actually missed the dungeons. How dare the other woman tell her how to feel? She knew nothing about Lucy. **Nothing**.

Morwen was having none of it.

"There are many things one does not want to do, but we must suffer them regardless." she intoned. Her dark eyebrows were pinched, the muscles around her mouth looking tight with self-righteous anger. Aeloth and Aearmarth remained silent by her sides.

"You were supposed to bring Maeglin." Lucy told her.

"I was supposed to bring **no one**." Morwen countered. "Do you think I know nothing of what it feels like to be trapped? To do things one does not wish to do? You selfish, spoilt child. There are far worse things one could suffer than being raised by the Noldor. This behavior, I will not tolerate it."

"Glorfindel would." Lucy said savagely, feeling her eyes smart with new, unshed tears. She sniffled loudly. "Glorfindel would let me do anything. He likes me."

"The Lord Glorfindel is not here." Morwen deadpanned. "I am. It is time you came to accept your fate. You are in Gondolin. You are not leaving. You are living **here**."

Lucy rubbed at her eyes, fresh tears beading along her eyelashes. "But I don't want to." she warbled miserably. It wasn't fair. It was never fair, and she wanted to go home, but Morwen wasn't moved.

"I do not want this either," the woman said. "But I must endure. Now, get up. It is time you stopped moping."

* * *

Afterwards Lucy had little choice in the matter without being forcibly coerced, so she let Aeloth bathe her once Aearmarth left. She also allowed the elleth to feed her several of the much-hated baby biscuits, to tide her over until her next proper meal. It was too late for breakfast or lunch, but the elves seemed to have supper quite late, and from what Lucy had observed they dined when the sun had set and the twilight was out. Morwen informed her that Glorfindel would be back that night, and that he wanted to see her.

Lucy didn't want to see him, but she had no choice in the matter. It didn't stop her from protesting, though. "No." she declared, after Aeloth had drawn her bath in an adjoining room and washed her hair.

"Yes." said Morwen, braiding random pieces of yarn together between dexterous, sun-browned fingers. The woman seemed to be so short on temper that Lucy wondered if something else hadn't happened. She wasn't usually this forcible. When Lucy kept pouting, the older woman sighed and closed her eyes, reaching up to rub at her forehead in exasperation.

"It is just dinner, Sweetness. You will survive, I assure you."

Lucy was having none of it, but the bathwater was growing cold and Aeloth – despite the language barrier – was surprisingly adept at handling her. As she walked back from Lucy's closet with a dress slung over her arm, the elleth leaned over, placing her slim hand against Morwen's shoulder for balance as she murmured something in the shorter woman's ear. Morwen translated for her.

"You wish to see Maeglin?" she asked.

Lucy pouted defiantly.

"Yes."

"If you behave yourself at dinner, Aeloth will inform the Lord Glorfindel that you wish to visit him."

Lucy perked up at this. It was a bribe, but she had no problem in taking it.

"Really?" she said, trying not to sound too hopeful. Maeglin was weird and withdrawn and sort of arrogant, but he was nephew to the King. Lucy couldn't shake the feeling that he and Glorfindel were uncomfortable around one another, and that thought alone made her positively giddy. Morwen nodded. Aeloth smiled. When the elleth approached, Lucy didn't cringe, letting Aeloth draw her out of the bath to wrap her in a soft, cotton-like robe. She scrubbed her hair dry with a towel. Morwen politely focused on something else while Aeloth went about this task.

"The Lady Aeloth has known the Lord Glorfindel for a very long time." Morwen continued. "She will make him see reason, she says." Lucy sneezed, shivering slightly under the dampness that still clung to her skin. Aeloth made a soft clicking sound with her tongue as she scrubbed Lucy's hair harder.

"Are you going to be there too?" Lucy asked the woman.

"No." Morwen did not elaborate.

"So I can see Maeglin?" Lucy said.

"Aeloth will do her best." Morwen hedged. Lucy supposed this was as close to a solid answer as she was going to get. The elves were slippery as silverfish when they wanted to evade a question, and Lucy had yet to catch one.

"Alright." she groused, and sat relatively still as Aeloth helped her dress.

Lucy didn't really care about dresses one way or another; clothes were clothes, and she was fine with anything so long as it was comfortable. The gown Aeloth had picked out for her was made of pale blue brocade, with a white shift underneath and a shimmering silver one atop that. The cuffs were decorated with patterns of ivory thread, and there were small white stones around the neckline. The dress looked just as rich as the one Lucy had ruined several nights before. As Aeloth slid the gown over her head, the elleth twitched at the sight of Lucy's scars, her eyes lingering on them for slightly longer than was appropriate. When she saw that Lucy had caught her staring, the ashen-haired elf smiled. After the dress was pulled over her head, Aeloth made her sit on the nearby stool as she laced up the back of her gown. Lucy ran her hands over the outfit, looking down at it. It fit her, and it felt nice to finally wear something that wasn't falling off her shoulders. The dress was also pleasantly warm against her chilly skin, although she would never admit so aloud.

Once it seemed like Lucy would behave herself without direct supervision, Morwen left, claiming exhaustion and excusing herself for the evening. Lucy was tired, too – although not as tired as she could have been, all things considered – but Aeloth seemed to grow more awake as the sun set. The elleth continued to hum as she finished adjusting Lucy's ties, before moving on to her hair. She pulled the worst of it away from her face, braiding the thick strands in a quick, practiced motion so it looked relatively neat for dinner. As she was doing so, Lucy caught a glance of herself in the mirror.

She was thinner, and looked far too pale in a way that came from sickness and lack of sunlight. The solemn blue eyes were the same, however, as were the fine-boned features. For a moment Lucy was ridiculously proud to see that her ears were rounded and human. The more she could distinguish herself from her unwanted benefactors, the better. Her absent musings on her own appearance were interrupted when Aeloth stepped between her and the mirror, draping some sort of robe over Lucy's dress and boldly maneuvering her arms through the sleeves without consent. It was the middle of summer, but the garment had obviously been made for winter, as it was thick and the collar was tall, designed to hide a good deal of skin. Lucy looked at the elleth listlessly, and Aeloth returned her gaze with a warm but distant smile.

"Theldh naring." she explained. "I dhaw ná ring ne Gondolin."

She was talking about Gondolin, but as to what she was saying about the city in particular, Lucy didn't know and didn't care. She wasn't even hungry, and the more she thought about leaving her room and actually conversing with Glorfindel, the more uncomfortable she became. She didn't really want to go anywhere anymore, Maeglin or no.

"I don't want to go," she told Aeloth bluntly. "It's okay. I don't have to see Maeglin." Her Dead-Eyed Knight could rescue her later. But Morwen wasn't there to translate, and with the exception of a slightly raised eyebrow when Lucy mentioned _Maeglin_ , Aeloth had no reaction to her words. The elleth gave her appearance an once-over, then helped her up. With a gentle arm draped around her shoulders, she guided Lucy through the door.

Once in the corridor Aeloth let Lucy walk on her own, so long as she stayed close; they were joined by several guards waiting in the hallway. Lucy dawdled like there was no tomorrow, purposely dragging her feet and making a show of peering at every little nook and cranny in an effort to bide her time. Often she would run her hand along the pale stone walls, skittishly veering to the side whenever another elf passed them. There weren't that many about, but there were enough, and although they all had Noldorin features and were just as tall, Lucy noticed that blue eyes – not gray – seemed to be a theme amongst Glorfindel’s household.

As they walked down the hallway towards the stairs, their party passed by an open window. Outside the twilight was almost gone, the sky darkening from blue to black. Lucy could hear a voice; faint and dulcet as the sound of it tickled softly against the shell of her ear. For a moment she thought there was someone standing outside the window, but decided this was silly. They were on the seventh floor, and Lucy knew there was no way she could hear anyone whispering from that height. Perhaps there was someone standing in a nearby alcove.

Aeloth led Lucy from the seventh floor to the fifth, before turning right and heading down another corridor. Lucy thought the voice would fade, and it did for a time, but then it came back with a vengeance. She rubbed at her ears, childishly irritated as she looked around her, searching for the source. She could find none. The elves seemed to take no notice of it – and they had better hearing than her – so she told herself it was nothing. As they finished descending down the stairs, the voice eventually dissipated. The irritation in her ears didn't, though. Lucy kept rubbing at them absently.

When they arrived on the third floor, Aeloth veered down a long corridor and bade Lucy follow, depositing her into a waiting room of sorts at the end of the hallway and leaving her there unattended. The chamber was devoid of furniture except for a deep blue settee in the corner. It was dark, lit only by a pale white light hanging by the door. On the right side of the room – past the floor-length windows covered with flowers – there was another doorway that presumably led to a second chamber. Outside, Lucy could hear the chirp of crickets singing in tandem, and through the window she could see the darkened, nebulous outline of Glorfindel's walled-off estate. Beyond that, she spied the jagged silhouette of the encircling mountains, pitch black against the royal blue sky. They were only visible by the swath of starless night they cut through the darkness.

Glorfindel did not arrive for several minutes.

Lucy thought it was a mistake at first – that she had been left in the room alone – and when she realized it **wasn't** a mistake, she didn't quite know what to do. The guards were outside, she knew, but there was nothing for her in the room, and when she sidled over and surreptitiously tried to tug on the second door, she discovered it was locked. She dawdled in circles for a time, nervously looking about the chamber before going over to peer curiously out the window.

As she leaned towards the awning, Lucy rubbed at her left ear. The voice had long since disappeared, but the memory of it grated on her, like sand particles stuck beneath her fingernails. There was no breeze in the room, but it was chillier than what she would have expected for a summer night. It caused a slight shudder to run down her spine. As Lucy leaned her head out the window, she spied something that piqued her interest. She was only on the third floor, so she was not so high up. From the ground to the windows there was a thick trellis of flowering vines, craggy but sturdy-looking enough to support someone. Lucy had all but given up on trying to escape, but looking down now, she felt the urge to flee suddenly flare to life. There was a tingle in her bones that signaled a potential opportunity, and it was an opportunity that looked so **easy** that at first Lucy thought someone was purposely setting her up.

She looked around the room, but it was as empty as ever, and even though Aeloth had left her some minutes before, Glorfindel had still not arrived. Perhaps she could climb down without the guards hearing her, she decided. Lucy didn't know where to go once she left the room, but she didn't exactly plan these things out. The height of the window – and the threat of falling – didn't bother her at all. She gripped the window ledge as she attempted to angle herself down, but became frustrated when her long sleeves and thick skirt soon tangled in the brambles. Lucy paused on the ledge, one leg draped precariously over the side as she fought with the fabric. The bark of the vine dug into her palm, rough and scratchy and smelling of loam and floral perfume. As she was fiddling with the skirt, Lucy heard whispering again, and looked up. There was no one else in the room.

The voice was louder now, and closer too, but still not so close that Lucy could make out the individual words. Even if it had, she knew she wouldn't have been able to understand it. Knowing one or two words wasn't enough to actually comprehend a language, Sindarin or otherwise. Lucy glared towards the shadowed corners of the chamber; the level of noise was almost painfully annoying, and she couldn't tell where it was coming from. Her ears felt hot. Perhaps it was Glorfindel's guards waiting in the hallway, she reasoned; there was nothing else that could explain it. Still rubbing at her ear, she gripped the edge of her skirt and pulled it free from a particularly thorny bramble, throwing her other slipper-clad foot and bare leg through the window to let it dangle over the side. She leaned over to spot the way.

And there, waiting at the bottom of the vine, was the rubbery white creature. The creature's long appendages were spread out like a spider's as it crawled crab-like up the trellis, moving at an unnervingly fast speed and clicking its teeth the entire way.

Lucy gasped and immediately flailed backwards, scrambling away from the window on hands and knees before turning around to crawl pell-mell all the way over to the settee to hide behind it. It took less than several seconds for her to get there, and when Lucy was behind the couch she hunkered down, waiting for the creature to emerge. There was no sound outside save for the continued chirp of crickets, and even several minutes later, the creature still hadn't crawled over the ledge.

_I saw it,_ Lucy thought frantically. _I **know** I did. _ She was too scared to check. She'd even lost a slipper in the scramble, and now her foot was cold and she was beginning to shiver, although that might have been from the fear. Lucy was so focused on the open window that the gentle weight of a hand pressing down upon her shoulder nearly made her scream. She startled badly, jerking herself out from underneath the stranger's grasp as she looked towards the source.

Glorfindel was crouched beside her, his lion's mane of hair falling to the floor and his features etched with worry.

"Lucy, mana raeg?" he asked softly, his hand remaining suspended between them. From what she could see, the elf lord was dressed rather simply in pale pants and a blue cotton tunic that looked exceptionally oversized, even on him. Lucy stayed where she was for a moment, her anxiety skyrocketing as she went from staring at the ellon to staring at the window, then back to him. Glorfindel returned her gaze with equal intensity, but it was an odd mixture of muted hope and deepening sadness that colored his expression. The fingers he braced against his knee were twitching.

"Lucy, mana ten?" he insisted. Lucy didn't know what he was saying, but she assumed it was a variation on the same question as before. Briefly, she managed to point towards the window. Her hand was shaking in tandem to the chirping of the crickets.

"It's here." she told him. "I saw it. I saw the creature."

Glorfindel didn't understand what she was saying, but the gesture was clear enough. The elf lord looked towards the window, and a moment later he stood to his full height, bracing his hands against his thighs for balance. He made towards the opening, grasping the pale stone pillars and leaning forward to look past the ledge. His golden hair tumbled out to dangle in the empty air beside him, and he looked an awful lot like Rapunzel in that moment.

"Ennas ná munta sí." Glorfindel said, sounding slightly confused. He leaned away, his hands still on the pillars as he rocked back on his heels to look at her. The elf lord's expression was one of muted concern.

"Lucy, what is it?" he asked. Outside there was the chirping of crickets. Inside, the low white light flickered eerily against the wall.

Lucy's ears hurt. She didn't have an answer for him.

* * *

Dinner was uncomfortable and horribly awkward.

For the life of her, Lucy couldn’t understand why Glorfindel had insisted on it, and the best answer she could come up with was that he was trying to normalize her to a routine. All his actions were done with exaggerated care so as not to spook her, and he spoke frequently in Sindarin, and slowly, as if hoping that she would pick up on some of the words.

The elf lord was just as clueless about her as she was about him, however, and although he knew that something was scaring her, he obviously didn't understand what it was. The ellon seemed to think she was suffering from generalized anxiety, and because of this his actions around her were stilted. It was obvious that he was trying to control a deeply impulsive streak he seemed to be harbouring, but for once Lucy didn't care how he behaved. She knew what she had seen, and that the creature was there. Her cold foot, missing slipper and racing heart were proof of it. She just had no way to tell him.

Dinner – when one stripped away the awkward atmosphere – was a casual affair. A rectangular table sat in the center of the room, and the dining hall was small and almost _homey_. Even the meal itself was modest, consisting of bowls of fruit and sautéed tubers, along with a type of flat bread that had been drizzled in honey. There was nothing flashy about it, nor ostentatious, and because of this there was something disarming about the simplicity of it all; a painfully unassuming nature that spoke to Glorfindel's mindset. Although the elf lord was beautiful to behold, he seemed to prefer modesty when it came to his personal aesthetics. Lucy was beginning to learn that the ellon was exceptionally guileless in numerous ways, and above all seemed to have a deep attachment for anything that reminded him of home and was physically _comfortable_.

The elf lord shot Lucy a glance as she eyed the table, looking for acknowledgement and perhaps a sign of approval. Lucy gave none. She was too nervous to eat anything, and although they weren't the only ones in the room – Aearmarth and Aeloth had been waiting for them when they arrived – this fact did little to calm her. She couldn't stop shivering, and she was fairly certain it wasn't from the cold. The shivers were noticeable. Once she was seated Glorfindel went to the other room before returning, draping the blanket from the settee over Lucy's shoulders while trying not to touch her. The ellon seemed to be mindful of her feelings to the point where it was painful. When she didn't react to his peace-offering, his fingers twitched noticeably. He took half a step towards her, but didn't move further. He couldn't seem to move **back** , however, and Glorfindel hovered nervously by her side until Aeloth said something to him in a tone that was oddly reprimanding. The elf lord shot one last mournful look towards Lucy and her negligent blanket, before he heeded Aeloth's instructions and returned to his seat.

Aearmarth was sitting slightly apart, watching the proceedings with a neutral expression. Still, Lucy got the impression he wasn't pleased. When Glorfindel sat, the smaller ellon gripped his wine glass with more force than was necessary, before downing the entire contents in one go. Lucy was seated on one side of the table and he on the other, but Glorfindel was fidgeting in a manner that was very reminiscent of before. From the way he kept looking at her, and how his fingers would unconsciously twitch in her direction, Lucy surmised that he wanted to sit **beside** her. She rubbed at her ear. The whispering was back, dulcet and insistent, and as she glanced fearfully towards the open windows she wondered if the voice actually belonged to that of the creature. The thought was terrifying.

Lucy ate nothing that was placed in front of her, and when Aeloth tried to put some sweetbread on her plate, she pushed it to the side. The room was growing cooler as the night progressed, and outside the lights of the city were beginning to dim, making the stars appear especially bright. Aeloth and Aearmarth seemed determined to act like a pall of unease **wasn’t** hanging over the table, and soon they were chatting amongst themselves with relative calm. Glorfindel seemed to be just as uncomfortable as Lucy was, but for different reasons. The elf lord was dressed casually, but without his armor and thick white robes he looked very small and especially vulnerable. This was silly, of course, because Glorfindel was seven feet tall and broad shouldered as any Noldo. Lucy supposed it was because of his tunic. It looked too large on him, and had the effect of making the elf lord seem childish. The sleeves kept slipping over his fingers.

The twins politely ignored Glorfindel's morose behavior. The distance did not make the elf lord happy, however, and as the forced meal dragged on his dejection only grew worse. The entire event was a horrible idea, and Lucy was torn between wanting to bolt for her room and trying to tell the elves that something was lurking outside. She could still hear the whispering, coming and going in intervals that had no rhyme or reason. If she hadn't seen the creature waiting at the bottom of the vine, Lucy would have believed she was just imagining it.

Across from her Glorfindel picked at his food, his movements flighty and delicate. His pale fingers sorted through the contents on his plate until he found something he liked, after which he ate eat nothing but that for the next several minutes. The ellon seemed to prefer sweets, and had a noticeable preference for what Lucy was assuming was a type of peach. As she watched him eat, she couldn't help but feel disgust. Everything about him was _sweet_ , and even though Glorfindel was doing something as mundane as the act of eating, the elf lord couldn't have been more inconspicuous if he tried.

When the ellon caught her staring, he raised his head and stared back. A moment later, he smiled softly, his blue eyes wide with tentative hope. His too-long sleeve fell over his fingers as he plucked a fresh peach off the table and held it out to her, the motion nonthreatening and friendly.

"Yávë?" The elf lord asked. Lucy looked up to face him fully.

And there in the window she saw it: the creature dangling upside down from the wall, right behind the ellon. It's lips were pulled back to reveal its needle-like teeth, its nostrils flared as it sniffed the air.

Lucy screamed and threw her plate in Glorfindel's direction. The ellon ducked, but seemed so shocked at the show of violence that he nearly let the dinnerware hit him in the head. Lucy didn't stay around to see if he was all right. She scrambled out of her chair, knocking it over as she ran towards the door.

"Lucy!" Glorfindel said. Lucy could hear him hurriedly getting up as well, quickly darting forward to try and stop her. "Lucy, wait!"

Lucy didn't wait. Her fingers scrabbled frantically at the door handle, yanking it open, and then she was free. Free to run and free to flee and free to get as far away from the creature as fast as possible. As she tumbled out into the hallway and set off running, the whispering returned. This time, Lucy could understand the words, and wished she hadn't.

_Lucy,_ it asked. _Why are you hiding from me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Standard bad grammar warning applies.
> 
> Theldh naring. I dhaw ná ring ne Gondolin – You'll get cold. The nighttime is chilly in Gondolin.
> 
> Lucy, mana raeg – Lucy, what is wrong
> 
> Lucy, mana ten – Lucy, what is it
> 
> Ennas ná munta sí – There is nothing here (Partial Quenya)
> 
> Yávë – Fruit (Quenya)


	14. The Paper Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 24, 2016

Lucy ran and she ran, and then she ran some more, barrelling haphazardly down the hallway faster than she could process and driven by pure adrenaline alone. Her skirts tangled around her legs, her hair falling out of its braids and streaming loose behind her. She couldn't run as fast as she wanted to, and it **hurt** because of the cuts on her feet, but she still ran as if her life depended on it. She veered towards whatever opening she could find, avoiding shadows and open windows as she searched frantically for an exit, or a way back down the stairs. She could hear the door slamming open behind her, the sound of Glorfindel running into the hallway in a quick patter of too-light footsteps and the soft rustle of clothes.

"Lucy!" he cried. "Lucy, toldan!" Lucy didn't answer.

It wouldn't take long for him to catch her, she knew, but Lucy was insensible with terror and the voice that whispered on the wind rattled at her bones. No matter where she ran, she couldn't truly escape it. Spying an open doorway, Lucy darted towards it. As she did so, Glorfindel caught up to her, his arms going around her waist as he tried to pull her back

Lucy screamed. She cried out and thrashed in panic, clawing at the elf lord's hands and throwing herself forward in a frantic attempt to break free. No one could touch her. If she didn't run, the creature was going to find her.

"Lucy!" Glorfindel pleaded, letting out a soft hiss of shock when Lucy dragged her nails across the tops of his palms, drawing blood. "Lucy, shh, ná varna, tîn dad, **lá** –"

"LET ME GO!" She screamed, trying to grasp the edge of the door. He wouldn't let her. "LET ME GO LET ME GO! NO! DON'T!"

"Lucy," Glorfindel urged, trying to contain her without panicking her further. It wasn't working. "Lucy, stop –"

Lucy kicked, her slipper-clad foot thudding against his kneecap. Glorfindel let out a curse and dropped her. Immediately she scrambled forward on hands and knees into the room. Lucy ran towards the nearest piece of furniture she could find in an effort to put something between her and the elf lord. She could still hear the voice, dulcet and lilting as it wafted on the air.

"Lucy –" Glorfindel begged, sounding breathless as he rushed through the door right behind her. "Lucy, ná varna –"

_Why are you hiding from me?_ asked the nameless whisper. _I **know** you're hiding._

"I'm not hiding!" Lucy wailed at no one in particular, clawing at her ears as she sunk into a ragged mess behind a nearby wooden chair. "I'm not! Go away! I want Tommy, give me Tommy –"

"Lucy –" Glorfindel began.

"SHUT UP!" she screamed, kicking the chair in Glorfindel's direction, and then she was sobbing again, harder than before, covering her ears and curling up in the corner. Glorfindel sidestepped the furniture easily. "Shut up. Please shut up. I'm not hiding, I'm not, leave me alone –"

Immediately Glorfindel was moving forward, dropping to his knees and reaching out to grasp her beneath the armpits. He drew her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her in an encompassing hug. Lucy struggled at first, kicking and screaming as she fought to break free, but this time he held on tight. "Lucy." Glorfindel pleaded into her hair, his voice cracking towards the end of her name as he struggled to control his own composure. He trapped her arms beneath one of his own, the other gripping the back of her head to keep her from smashing it against any hard surface. "Lucy," He insisted. "Lucy, ná varna. Avon malad, ná varna."

Lucy didn't pay attention.

She was hyperventilating now, and badly at that, her chest heaving against his and her mouth open as she gasped for air, staring wild-eyed in terror towards the open door. Her limbs were locking up, and she was so dizzy she felt like she was going to faint. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt. Glorfindel must have been able to hear how fast her heart was going, because he stopped trying to hold her so tightly and began running his hand up and down across her back in fearful circles, trying to ease the muscles instead.

"Nimeleth, ná varna." the elf lord crooned. "Ná varna si. Avon á ho malad." He drew her all the way onto his lap, leaning his head against hers as he murmured soothing sounds in her ear. There was no light in the room except for the one in the hallway, and in the semi-darkness Glorfindel's hair appeared like a blue wave as it fell over Lucy's shoulder to tumble down her back. The nameless whisper was still there, but it was fading now, the abrasive unease it conjured replaced with an indescribable warmth. Lucy sniffled, still overwhelmed by her tears, and at the sound of her distress Glorfindel seemed to crumple beneath her, pressing a feverish kiss against the side of her head. The hand that was running circles across her back was trembling.

"Lucy, carú nalla." he choked out. Another feverish kiss was pressed to her forehead, and then a third to her temple. His lips were warm. "Lá carú nalla. Ná varna, im gwesta."

From the hallway there was the quick, soft patter of footsteps, and then Aeloth rounded the corner to arrive at the door. She looked slightly breathless, the light just enough to show the faint outline of her features. The elleth stared into the darkness with concern. She didn't say anything as she watched Lucy lie there against the elf lord's shoulder, nor did she comment when Glorfindel curled around her, rocking them both back and forth. Soon Aeloth's expression sobered, and a few minutes later she drew back into the hallway, her hand still on the doorway as her expression shuttered. She turned and walked away without a word.

A swift shadow followed in the elleth’s wake. Lucy was only barely cognizant enough to realize that it was Aearmarth quickly striding after his sister. Once again, there was no sign of the creature that had clung to the wall. Lucy wasn't calm yet, but she was no longer screaming. Her breathing was still far too quick. Glorfindel's tunic beneath her cheek was turning wet from her tears, and as they sat there he adjusted his grip on her so he could see her better, reaching up with the pad of his thumb to wipe away what moisture he could. His skin was smooth, his touch absurdly gentle. As Lucy's hyperventilating trailed off into noisy hiccups, the elf lord settled against her further. Glorfindel ran his knuckles absently back and forth across her upper arm, his other hand cupping the base of her skull. Lucy let him.

"Im ídhra ci." he admitted sadly, a moment later. "Im ídhra ci mell im nauth im fir."

They fit together in a familiar sort of way, and the manner in which Glorfindel held her was practiced, like all his actions before. The voice was gone now, faded out to nothing but an unpleasant echo. Being held by Glorfindel was like being enveloped in the literal embodiment of warmth: in the gentle, distant rays of the sun. His tunic was soft and his hair was softer, and always, he smelt like sunflowers.

"I saw it." Lucy told him, her teeth chattering as she spoke. Glorfindel's arms tightened around her back as she did so, and she knew he was listening. "You have to kill it." she said. She knew he could. He killed balrogs, after all. Only that hadn't happened yet.

The elf lord bestowed another sad, slightly desperate kiss against her temple. He couldn't seem to get close enough. "Û entë lim." he agreed, his own voice sounding slightly ragged. "Cinnog tyellë. Thelm mab nad lenca."

They remained like that for a few more minutes, and eventually Lucy felt one of Glorfindel's hands move downwards, his long fingers carefully cupping the bottom of her bare foot as he inspected it. She didn't flinch beneath the contact this time, and neither did Glorfindel remove his hand.

"Mana hen?" he asked, sounding faintly perplexed. He moved his head against hers to look over his shoulder. "Manen ci wanwa habadel?" Lucy didn't answer.

When Lucy remained listless, Glorfindel gathered her more securely in his arms and stood, lifting her easily off the floor. He held her tighter than necessary as he left the room and walked swiftly down the hallway, ascending the stairs before making towards her room. Aeloth was waiting for them inside. Lucy's covers had already been drawn back, and a candle had been lit by her bedside. Glorfindel laid her down atop the mattress with excessive care, remaining a respectful few feet apart. Lucy sluggishly crawled beneath the sheets and curled in on herself, fancy dress and all. Once she was settled, he leaned over her, drawing the covers all the way up to her chin and tucking them securely around her sides before stepping away from the bed. Huddling deeper, Lucy didn't look up. For many minutes afterwards, she could hear Glorfindel and Aeloth talking to each other, their soft whispers wafting in through the open doorway that led to the hall. The elf lord sounded upset.

Slowly, so they wouldn't catch her staring, Lucy turned over beneath the covers and opened her eyes, carefully lifting the duvet a crack so she could glance towards the door. She couldn't see much in the darkness – Glorfindel and Aeloth's forms were silhouetted against the soft golden glow of the lamps – but she could see enough. The elf lord's body language was visibly distraught. He was slumped against the wall, his knees bent and back hunched, looking far too thin in his too-big tunic and shaking all over without stop. He head was bowed, a hand held to his mouth as if to prevent himself from screaming.

Aeloth was leaning over him, her arms stretched out as she rested one hand against his bicep and the other atop his head. Gently, the elleth tried to tug him up.

"Ai, pitya laurinamo." she said sadly. "Laurëfindil, ná varna. Véla? Ilu mára." Glorfindel didn't seem to be paying attention. The elleth's grip on his arm became more insistent. "Laurëfindil," she chastised softly. "Ná acca linyenwa an sina, melmënya. Sana o ya ammë quetë." The elf lord didn't respond to her admonishment.

Lucy blinked once, then closed her eyes and dropped the cover, turning back around as she tried to tune them out. Aeloth continued speaking softly. The elf lord never responded to her beyond monosyllabic murmurs that were so choppy it was a wonder he could get them out at all. Finally the two of them left, although the door to the hallway remained open.

The creature didn't return, and neither did the voice. Lucy fell into an uneasy sleep with one eye open, trained towards the window.

* * *

The next morning there was no creature and no more whispering, and when Lucy awoke it was to find Aeloth sitting by her bedroom window, her ankles crossed beneath her skirt and an embroidery circle laid out atop her lap. She was stitching silver patterns of thread into a purple piece of cloth, her head bowed as her ashen hair fell across one slender shoulder to pool carelessly by her side.

The sun was bright in Lucy's room, staining the gauzy curtains around her bed a golden yellow. Beneath the duvet everything felt sinfully warm and soft. For a moment – that hazy in-between moment where one resides amid sleep and wakefulness – Lucy was able to pretend that she was in her bed at home. Already, the sky was a pale blue in color, the edges peaking out from behind the mountains tinged with a slight orange glow. From her open window, Lucy could hear the chirping of a lone sparrow; the buzzing of what sounded like bees from somewhere along the creeping trellis of vines clinging to the outer wall. Everything was tranquil and calm.

_War,_ Lucy though abstractly. _There is no war here. They're lying._ Then she remembered the creature crawling across the ceiling, and shuddered. Maybe it was only a matter of time before other things came crawling over the mountains, too.

Aeloth looked up as she shifted beneath the blankets, her gaze hooded. Lucy didn't remember hearing the elleth return to her room. Although the way Aeloth was staring at her was somewhat blank, there was also a note of concern behind it. It wasn't for Lucy herself, she knew; it was for _him_. Aeloth liked Glorfindel a lot.

"Nar ci matha mára?" the elleth said in that calm, understated manner of hers, absently tugging her silver thread through the taut surface of the cloth. Lucy didn't understand, so she didn't answer. The two of them stayed like that for many minutes, with Lucy refusing to get up and Aeloth refusing to make her move. The elleth seemed content to let her sit there and stew beneath the covers. She was nothing like Limbrethil, in truth. There were similarities, of course; each of them appeared to have rudimentary knowledge of healing, but Aeloth was calmer, and seemed less fussy in general. The elleth gave her space when she needed it the most, and when Lucy eyed her in earnest she was reminded of a slow moving river. There were deep waters there, and rarely was the elleth disturbed.

Eventually Aeloth sighed and stood, gently placing her embroidery ring atop her chair as she walked over to the bed. At first Lucy didn't flinch away from her hands, but when the elleth tried to draw her covers back, she did, shaking her head and huddling up further. She stared fearfully past the elleth towards the open window. Lucy couldn't see the creature at the moment, nor could she hear any whispering, but that didn't mean that it wasn't there. She was too terrified to even think about looking upwards; what if the monster was clinging to the canopy above her bed? Lucy hadn't thought of that before, but now that she had she couldn't get rid of the notion. Immediately she broke out into a cold sweat. _It's not there,_ she told herself. _It can't be. Don't look._

_Why are you hiding from me, Lucy?_ the presence said.

The memory of the voice was so strong that Lucy didn't know if she was just recalling it, or if the whispering had actually come back. Her shivers became acute. Aeloth sighed in a good-natured manner, reaching out and smoothing down the messy tangle of Lucy's hair as she shook beneath her hand.

"Ai," she said in a genial, long suffering manner. "Ná i imya lé e né, ir e né neth." Lucy didn't know what she was saying, of course, and was unmoved by Aeloth's friendly tone. The nascent sense of fear – a pervasive, ever-growing fear compounded by stress – was making her feel sick.

"I want Glorfindel." she told Aeloth firmly. Lucy didn't actually want him, but if she couldn't get her hands on Maeglin she would settle for the other elf lord. He was always there, and Tommy had told her again and again he was good with a sword. He would kill the creature for her, she knew. Thinking about Tommy made her want the other girl, too.

_Greedy_ , Tommy would have told her with a laugh. _You're always so greedy, Lucy. You want everything._

_But I **deserve** everything. _ Lucy had told her, again and again. She really thought she did.

Aeloth perked up at the sound of Glorfindel's name, the hand that she was using to smooth down Lucy's hair pressing more gently than before.

"Ci iest tíra Glorfindel?" she asked with a smiled. "E innas ta." Then, as an afterthought "caro ci iest mad?"

When Lucy continued to stare at her blankly, the elleth lifted her other hand and mimed what Lucy could only assume was eating.

"Eat." she said, and Lucy sort of understood. "Would you like to eat?"

"I want Glorfindel." Lucy corrected her. Aeloth seemed to get the general gist of what Lucy was saying, but took her answer as a _yes_ anyways. Lucy wasn't hungry. She still had to eat breakfast first.

* * *

Breakfast was porridge, sprinkled with what looked like sugar and decorated with thin slices of peach. It was bland and sweet and wholly unappetizing, but Lucy had no way to tell Aeloth this, which made her mood even worse. She stared glumly at the oatmeal as the elleth brushed the tangles out of her hair, her stomach rolling itself into knots. Eventually, Lucy began to spoon listlessly at the porridge without actually eating it, letting the grayish mass fall back into the bowl with a series of despondent _plops._ She hated sugar, and she wasn't hungry, and on top of everything else she wished she were still asleep. With the exception of her odd dream about Glorfindel and the crown of thorns, her nights had been filled with nothingness. When she was asleep, she could pretend that the creature wasn't there; that all her pervasive fears had vanished.

Lucy kept shaking all throughout the meal, and it only worsened as the sun rose and Aeloth finished brushing her hair. Eventually the spoon was rattling so loudly in Lucy's grip that the elleth reached around and took it away. There was a slightly sad look on Aeloth’s face as she cleared Lucy's uneaten breakfast out of the vicinity. When she returned, Lucy was still sitting where the elleth had left her, staring off into space and fingers clenching convulsively as she rested her shaking hands in her lap.

Aeloth reached forward and gripped one, using her other to briefly feel Lucy's temperature before letting go altogether.

"Ai hên," she said. "Uin henia ná ta thos."

Lucy didn't look at her, so Aeloth dropped the subject and thankfully went about her business, picking out Lucy's dress for the day and generally pretending that she wasn't slowly going into shock. For her own part Lucy simply sat there, too terrified to look at the window or the ceiling or the floor or anywhere that wasn't her lap. She felt saturated in fear, and she didn't know why it was growing. She **did** , of course, but Lucy had spent most of her life being unafraid of everything. Malaise did that to a person, and Lucy's fearlessness bordered on stupid most of the time. Even still, the creature provoked such a reaction in her that she couldn't **not** be afraid. It was wrong. The whole thing was wrong. The monster shouldn't have been there in Gondolin, and she had no way to tell the others about it except through Morwen.

"Can you get Morwen?" she finally managed to ask in a shaky, reedy-sounding voice. Aeloth turned round to face her with dress in hand, making an _hmming_ noise in question. When Lucy didn't look her in the eye and continued to shake, the elleth strode over to her, placing the garments on the bed and looking at Lucy with what could be described as a slight amount of concern.

"Mana hen o Morwen?" she asked. Lucy couldn't understand Aeloth, and Aeloth couldn't understand her, but Lucy still tried regardless.

"Can you get Morwen?" she repeated, her hands still shaking as Aeloth began to help her undress. "I want – Morwen, Morwen can translate for me –"

Aeloth simply pursed her lips into a frown as she pulled off Lucy's gown and pulled on her new dress, beginning to lace up the back. "Heriam gelia ci Sindarin." she said. "Im innas carfa Glorfindel bo hen rhû." There was no more talk on the subject.

The elleth clothed her in a dark blue dress that seemed heavier than one would normally wear for summer, but Lucy was always cold, so she didn't mind. Afterwards Aeloth braided Lucy’s hair away from her face, but kept most of it loose, and then with her hand on Lucy's upper arm and her other wrapped around Lucy’s shoulders, the elleth led her forward. Lucy was shaking so badly her steps were stilted, and when Aeloth steered her past an open window she nearly fainted from fear.

The elleth guided her to Glorfindel's study; the fifth floor one, where he had first brought her after he kidnapped her from the dungeons. Inside Glorfindel was seated in a wooden chair behind his desk, slouched low and staring absently into space as he played with Lucy's kitten. The tiny creature was batting at his fingers, gnawing on the slender tips. The curtains were open, and as they walked into the room the morning sun glanced off the edge of his face, the light setting his golden hair aglow. Glorfindel turned to look at them when they entered. His expression could have passed for neutral, if it hadn't been for the too-wide set of his eyes and the way he bit his bottom lip. As it was, he looked somewhat nervous. Aeloth seemed to understand what was upsetting him the moment they stepped into the room, but despite this she remained calm and appeared to ignore his agitation.

"Gardh losta?" she asked him, sounding far too genial as she led Lucy further into the chamber. Glorfindel wasn't really paying attention to the other elf. He was looking at Lucy, his gaze wary as he watched her creep forward.

" **Laurëfindil**." Aeloth chided as she let go of Lucy and stepped towards him, reaching forward to pick up an unused tea set off his desk.

Glorfindel startled slightly at the movement, blinking rapidly. He shifted his gaze towards the elleth with a blatant look of confusion. "Huh?" he said.

Aeloth remained as calm and imperturbable as ever. "Gardh losta?" the elleth repeated. Lucy thought she could detect a note of frustration behind the elf’s voice, although she couldn’t be sure. She was saturated in fear, and even though she had clenched her hands in the front of her dress, they were still shaking violently. Glorfindel had seen Lucy's shaking, and he was beginning to look faintly distressed by it, his full lips forming into a pout.

"Im innas caro abha." he promised. At this Aeloth sighed, placing her hand atop the elf lord's shoulder and she leaned close to whisper something against his ear. Glorfindel accepted this easily enough, and didn't seem to pay attention to her until halfway through the conversation. He perked up at something Aeloth said, his expression taking on a hopeful quality. Lucy could almost see his too-sharp ears twitch in interest as he turned to look towards the other elf, the motion of his head causing his loose hair to tumble into his lap. The kitten started chewing on it.

"Gelia?" Glorfindel asked.

"Ald." Aeloth clarified. "Hirmin hye."

"Why?" Glorfindel said petulantly. He sounded slightly downtrodden, and if he were a child Lucy could have sworn that he would’ve been whining. Aeloth finished collecting the rest of his tea from the table.

"Ald." she told him simply. Then she turned with tea set in hand and gave Lucy a benign smile, walking out of the door and leaving the two of them alone.

Normally Lucy would have been apprehensive about being alone with Glorfindel, but she was so anxious about empty halls and the corners of walls and open space in general that she actually preferred that he be there. She hadn't seen him fight yet, but the elf lord usually carried a sword with him, so she was sure he knew how to use one. Lucy knew he would look out for her. He always did, and the familiarity of this was comforting.

Glorfindel watched her avidly as she stood a couple feet away, his expression open and far too intense. Lucy stared in the general direction of his lap, as she was terrified at the prospect of looking up and seeing the creature standing behind him. The kitten was far too playful, Lucy thought; at the moment it was gripping Glorfindel's palm and gnawing furiously on one of his slender fingers, its little tail held straight for balance and its snow-white fur puffed out. Glorfindel seemed to have forgotten it was there. When it let out a tiny mewl, he finally reached over with his other hand and began to scratch it behind its ear. Lucy wasn't staring at him, but she knew he was staring at her.

"Ná matha mára?" he finally asked. His question was hesitant. Lucy chanced looking up at his face, trying to still the shaking of her hands and the furious beating of her heart. Glorfindel wasn't frowning, but the look in his eyes somehow translated to fear. He didn't like her shaking, Lucy knew. He was eying the slight shudder running along her shoulders, and the more she trembled the deeper his distress became.

Impulsively Glorfindel's free hand reached forward, lifting in her direction as he beckoned her close. "Come here." he said. There was a plaintive edge to his voice. "Please Lucy. Im polú… Im vá… Im vá sui ten."

The sudden movement startled her, and Lucy looked down, trying to keep her eyes trained on the floor. Even still, she caught other details of the room as she did so. The lamps were out, but there were a cluster of candles on the table beside him that looked like they had burnt low during the night. Beside that, there were a mess of papers and inkbottles strewn about, along with a half-empty carafe of wine. For some reason the sight of the wine upset her. Lucy had no idea why, but the shaking of her hands got worse. The kitten mewled from Glorfindel’s lap. Deftly, the elf lord twisted his free hand around it so he could scoop it up and deposit it on the table, keeping his other hand raised as he gestured for Lucy to come nearer.

"Please Lucy," he insisted. "Im vá sui ten ir thosd." Lucy couldn't understand most of what he said, but she could decipher the gesture from the plaintive tone in his voice.

At first neither of them moved beyond Glorfindel's immediate response. On the air Lucy could hear the sounds of the city slowly waking up. An errant breeze wound its way through the room, gusting past the gauzy curtains and clattering the fairy lamps that hung from the ceiling. It smelt like summer; like buttercups and fresh flowers and the pollen that traveled across farm fields during July. _There is no war here,_ Lucy thought, then remembered the creature.

Without thinking the action through, she took a shaky step towards Glorfindel.

He stayed where he was for the most part, but when Lucy got close the ellon gave in and reached for her hands. The elf lord grasped them in his, drawing her forward until their knees were touching. Glorfindel tilted his head to look at her as she stood before him, his blond hair appearing more flyaway than ever and his vivid blue eyes suspiciously glassy.

"Nányë an navë san orna." he said in a rush. "Humind na orna. Humin. Aeloth quetni im uorna, tana nányë acca linyenwa san, anat im polú asëa sa."

Although she couldn't understand him, the elf lord sounded so painfully sincere that Lucy knew he was apologizing for something. His thumbs were rubbing soothing circles back and forth across the tops of her palms, his grip firm and expression heartfelt as he watched her with blatant worry. She was still shaking.

"Lucy, lá vá ea thosso o ni." Glorfindel begged. "Please. Im ala malaldë. Ornuru enna."

"Can you kill it?" she asked him instead. Lucy was absurdly proud of the way her voice remained mostly steady. Glorfindel seemed less pleased than she was about her response, and Lucy wondered if it was because he could hear the tremors in her voice better than she.

"Im merldë en tarquesta." he told her in return, his grip on her hands tightening as he drew her even closer, so she was standing between his legs. Lucy let him, and her acceptance – or lack of reaction – seemed to embolden him. A moment later Glorfindel was letting go of her hands and pulling her into a hug.

"Im merldë tarquesta." he repeated, drawing her onto his knee and wrapping his arms around her so tightly Lucy thought he would never let go. His speech was breathless. "Im merldë tarquesta, im tarquesta lye ar quetldë manen olya im loitaldë."

The elf lord had poor impulse control, and when what little restraint he had finally fell away, the full force of his affection hit her in a tidal wave. If Lucy had been feeling better she probably would have pushed him aside, but she wasn't. Instead, she let him hold her. She liked the predictability of him, she guessed. The way she knew he was always safe. And Glorfindel **was** safe, at least for her. He was beautiful and affectionate and terribly guileless. Lucy may have been unhinged and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but even she could see that he was desperate for attention, and that she wouldn't have to do much to get him to help her.

Even through her fear, that got her thinking.

"Yáldë lendë, im quetnya atar im aw eccesldë." Glorfindel was saying, his voice muffled against her shoulder as he buried his face in her hair. "Essë eques ta ui Edain minna Valinor, ar im nánë návë orna."

His own hair was soft, and Lucy was slowly becoming accustomed to the texture of it. A shudder went through him, and his arms tightened further. Lucy's own shudders subsided to a shiver. She still didn't look at the ceiling or windows, but being held by Glorfindel had the pleasant effect of making her fall into a drugged sort of stupor, where she didn't really care about much at all.

"I missed you." Glorfindel said, and she understood that part. The idea that had begun percolating just a moment before began to bloom, and slowly, Lucy raised her arms in a stilted manner, wrapping them around Glorfindel's neck in a loose approximation of a hug. She wasn't good at it, and even the most casually discerning person could tell that the gesture was fake, but the elf lord's reaction was so immediate and receptive that Lucy wondered why she hadn't tried it before. The ellon seemed to come alive under her attention, and suddenly his grip on her was much more fervent, the small touches that he gave heady with devotion. One hand pressed tightly against her back, the other burying itself in her hair as he turned his head, resting his temple against hers.

"Will you kill it for me?" she asked him again, the shaking in her voice lessening. "Will you kill the creature?"

Glorfindel turned further towards her, and suddenly Lucy felt his lips against her cheek, pressing to a spot beside the corner of her right eye. When she didn't move away, the ellon deposited another one in the exact same position. A small sound of relief escaped from the back of his throat when she didn't reject him.

"Melánë, Lucy." he said into her hair, clutching at her as if he was afraid she'd leave him. Glorfindel was speaking so quickly his words were slurring together. His fingers were firm indents against her spine, his chest heaving against hers as he seemed to struggle for breath. Lucy simply sat there, listening to the vibration of his voice as he went on in a reverent manner. "Melánë," he said. "Nyë. Telmanyë anldë. Vá ala avim."

Lucy didn't understand a word of it, so she didn't answer. She did wrap her arms more firmly around his neck, though, because it seemed the right thing to do. Glorfindel reciprocated the gesture, and Lucy finally came to the conclusion that he was probably lonely. She could sense it on him; a thick, porous miasma that hid behind a friendly disposition and a beautiful smile. Suddenly, the threat of the creature didn't seem quite so bad, and the weight in her chest began to lift. Glorfindel was there, and he was lonely. He would probably do anything for her. Tommy would have been mad at her for using him, but Tommy wasn't there. Lucy tightened her arms around his neck, squeezing slightly for emphasis.

"Will you kill it for me?" she asked a third time, as added insurance. Even though she was certain he couldn't understand her, Glorfindel nodded immediately, his face partially hidden against her shoulder. As an experiment, Lucy leaned close, whispering her next words against his ear.

"Will you kill the balrog?"

She didn't touch him – not really – but Glorfindel shuddered violently at the contact, the hand that was against her back clenching reflexively in the fabric of her dress. Impulsively Lucy tightened her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. She did it without thought, and definitely without concern towards the way her actions would be perceived, but Glorfindel melted like butter under the gesture. Lucy could feel it in the way his grip along her back grew slack. How he leaned into her, his eyes going glassy and his pupils rapidly expanding.

"Lucy, melánë." the elf lord said, his words thick with stupor. His head rested against hers, his hands falling to curl around her waist. "Melánë acca olya, ar im vá istaya carnna."

"That's nice." Lucy hummed. She didn't really care what he was saying. It wasn't important, after all. As an afterthought, she added. "Don't forget to kill the creature."

Nearby, the kitten mewled and knocked over the wineglass, spilling the contents over a map of Gondolin. It looked like blood splattered across the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Absolutely huge this time, and since there was confusion last time as to who said what, once again I'm including the names of those that were speaking. Standard bad grammar warning applies! 
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, toldan – Lucy, come back
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, shh, ná varna, tîn dad, lá – Lucy, shh, it's safe, calm down, please
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, ná varna – Lucy, it's safe
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, ná varna. Avon malad, ná varna – Lucy, it's safe. I won't hurt you, it's safe
> 
> [Glorfindel] Nimeleth, ná varna. Ná varna si. Avon á ho malad – Nimeleth, it's safe. It's safe now. I won't let him hurt you
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, carú nalla. Lá carú nalla. Ná varna, im gwesta – Lucy, don't cry. Please don't cry. It's safe, I promise
> 
> [Glorfindel] Im ídhra ci. Im ídhra ci mell im nauth im fir – I longed for you. I longed for you so dearly I though I (would) die
> 
> [Glorfindel] Û entë lim. Cinnog tyellë. Thelm mab nad lenca – No more rushing. Small steps. We will take things slow (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Mana hen? Manen ci wanwa habadel – What's this? How (did) you lose your shoe (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Ai, pitya laurinamo – Ai, little golden one (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Laurëfindil, ná varna. Véla? Ilu mára – Laurëfindil, it's safe. See? Everything's better (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Ná acca linyenwa an sina, melmënya. Sana o ya ammë quetë – You are too old for this, my love. Think of what your mother (would) say (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Nar ci matha mára – Are you feeling better
> 
> [Aeloth] Ná i imya lé e né, ir e né neth – You are the same way he was, when he was young (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Ci iest tíra Glorfindel? E innas ta – You wish to see Glorfindel? He will like that 
> 
> [Aeloth] Caro ci iest mad – Do you want to eat
> 
> [Aeloth] Ai hên, uin henia ná ta thos – Ai child, I do not understand (why) you are so fearful
> 
> [Aeloth] Mana hen o Morwen – What is this about Morwen
> 
> [Aeloth] Heriam gelia ci Sindarin. Im innas carfa Glorfindel bo hen rhû – We must teach/show you Sindarin. I will talk to Glorfindel on this matter
> 
> [Aeloth] Gardh losta – Have you slept
> 
> [Glorfindel] Im innas caro abha – I will do it later
> 
> [Glorfindel] Gelia – Lessons/learning
> 
> [Aeloth] Ald. Hirmin hye – Not you. Find someone else
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ná matha mára – Are you feeling better (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Please Lucy. Im polú… Im vá… Im vá sui ten – Please Lucy. I cannot… I do not… I do not like it (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Im vá sui ten ir thosd – I don't like it when you're fearful (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Nányë an navë san orna. Humind na orna. Humin. Aeloth quetni im uorna, tana nányë acca linyenwa san, anat im polú asëa sa – I am (sorry) for being so hasty. I don't mean to impatient. I don't. Aeloth tells me I (shouldn't) be hasty, that I am too old for it, but I cannot help it (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, lá vá ea thosso o ni. Im ala malaldë. Ornuru enna – Lucy, please don't be afraid of me. I (would) never hurt you. I would die first (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Im merldë en tarquesta. Im merldë tarquesta im tarquesta lye ar quetldë manen olya im loitaldë – I wish you still spoke Quenya. I wish you spoke Quenya (so) I could talk to you and tell you how much I missed you (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Yáldë lendë, im quetnya atar im aw eccesldë. Essë eques ta ui Edain minna Valinor, ar im nánë návë orna – When you left, I told my father I had to find you. He said there were no Edain in Valinor and I was being hasty/foolish (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Melánë, Lucy – I love you, Lucy (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Melánë. Nyë. Telmanyë anldë. Vá ala avim – I love you. I do. I will do anything for you. Do not leave me (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, Lucy, melánë. Melánë acca olya, ar im vá istaya carnna – Lucy, I love you. I love you too much, and I don't know what to do (Quenya)


	15. A Change in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 26, 2016

After that day, the two of them drifted for a time.

Lucy thrived on attention, but didn't necessarily seek it out, and while she wasn't fickle she had little patience for those things that didn't keep her interest. She didn't like being around Tommy's sun god even on the best of days, and wanted nothing to do with him beyond what he could do for her in terms of safety.

Once the threat of the creature receded, Lucy shied away from the elf lord whenever possible. She **did** like being held by him, and was willing to admit it; Glorfindel was warm and big and very gentle, and when he actually caught her she was usually content to just sit there and let him spoil her. It was the "getting to the holding" part that was the problem. For Lucy, Glorfindel was a bit like a security blanket: something comforting, and always there. Unfortunately he was also too intense, too strange, and too _inhuman_ for her liking _._ The not-being-human part bugged her a great deal. Whenever he came close, all Lucy could do was stare at his features. How the tilt of them was just a little too sharp for her tastes, his coloring gem-like and artificial. The elf lord was simply too odd for her to let him approach at leisure.

Glorfindel did not share this belief, and had no reservations about physical contact. It was blatantly apparent that the elf lord did not understand Lucy's skittishness, and was extremely hurt by her rejection. The ellon was determined, of course; determined to befriend her, and make her feel as welcome as possible, but he was also afraid. He wouldn't touch her unless she let him – and he would put on a brave face – but he fooled no one. As to _what_ he was afraid of, Lucy couldn't say, but she knew he was by the way that he smiled. How his gestures became more brittle day by day, and how he was hyper-vigilant and nearly paranoid when he was around her.

The others picked up on this paranoia easily enough, and as a result Aeloth became withdrawn in Lucy's presence. Aearmarth – whom Lucy saw little of – became even more forthcoming in his general distaste. Morwen was with her most days, and whenever Glorfindel stopped by to see her, the woman would send a funny glance in Lucy's direction.

"Why do you look at me so weird?" Lucy asked one morning, nearly a week after the incident in the dining room. The creature had not been seen since, and while Lucy was still worried about it, she spent most of her time holed up in her bedroom, accompanied by Aeloth and under guard. It allowed her enough breathing space to think about other things.

Morwen looked at her strangely, again. "Whatever do you mean, Sweetness?"

"That." said Lucy, pointing to her face. "You're doing **that**."

Morwen's look took on a note of general exasperation. "Use your words, Sweetness." she warned. Lucy tried again. As per usual, she wasn't very good with it.

"You look weird when he comes to visit."

"When _who_ comes to visit?" Morwen hedged. Over by the window, Aeloth looked up from her bundle of embroidery. She was still working on her purple and silver dress. When Morwen evaded the question, a stab of anger lodged itself between Lucy's ribs. Morwen knew whom she was talking about. She always did.

"Glorfindel." Lucy clarified, even though she didn't want to. "You look at me weird when Glorfindel is here."

"I do not."

"Yes you **do**." she knew what she had seen. Morwen sighed, tilting her head as she braided her strands of yarn together with more force than was necessary. Lucy didn't know what she was making, but it sort of looked like a rope.

"You should not involve yourself with the elves." Morwen finally said, keeping her voice low. "Especially Noldor. It will not end well."

"We're trapped." Lucy reminded her, with emphasis. "I have no choice."

"You should not." Morwen insisted. "We are not the same as them. The Noldo lord, he will not understand. You are young, but not _too_ young, and he will –" She pursed her lips together unhappily, and wouldn’t finish.

“Do you miss your sons?” Lucy asked. She was pretty sure that was why the woman was so upset. Morwen’s movements became brittle, the braiding motion of her hands more jerky. Her face was a frigid mask.

“Of course I miss my sons. How would **you** feel, if you were separated from your children?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then you are lucky, Sweetness, to not know such a thing. Tamen, he is… he is only **five** –” Morwen visibly choked on her words and curled in on herself, blinking fitfully. She couldn’t finish. Her eyes were suspiciously wet. Lucy quickly agreed with the woman’s assessment to forgo the tears, and told her as such. Unfortunately they were both confined to the city. There was not much either of them could do about Morwen’s sons, and both of them knew it.

So Lucy drifted and Glorfindel pined, and while part of that distance was due to her own reluctance, it was also because the elf lord was extremely busy. Lucy didn't see any other important elves on Glorfindel’s estate, other than Ecthelion, as the elf lord usually went out to meet people instead. She ran into the dark-haired Noldo quite by accident one day, when she'd ventured out of her room and down the hall in an attempt to escape Aeloth's clutches. A natural streak of curiosity and the diminishing threat of the creature made her more inquisitive than usual. When she rounded a corner in the hallway, she abruptly found the other elf lord standing there.

Ecthelion turned towards her, and for a moment the two of them did nothing but stare at each other in silence. He was dressed in blue and silver armour, a curving sword strapped to his hip and his stance relaxed. The ellon looked Noldo through and through, and Lucy recognized him because his hair was just as long as Glorfindel's. That morning he had pulled it back in a high ponytail that fell to his waist, the left side braided in a swirling, intricate pattern. Lucy thought the way his hair was styled suited him nicely, although his expression was frosty as he stared at her. She glared back as his gaze went from her head to her toes, then returned, his gloved hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

"Natyë maerdir, im cen." he drawled. Lucy pouted and clenched her fists in the front of her dress.

"What are **you** doing here?" she said. Glorfindel chose that moment to step up behind them.

"Lucy." he breathed, sounding surprised. "Manen ci sí?" Before she had time to move away, his hand was coming to rest at the base of her head, his fingers smoothing down her darkened locks. His flaxen-haired captain, Caragduin, was standing beside him. Automatically Lucy flinched away from Glorfindel's touch.

Ecthelion watched with too-bright eyes as Lucy moved; he watched the way that Glorfindel let his hand fall to the side without complaint as he stood there with a pained expression. A second later the elf lord rolled his eyes. He turned and stalked away.

"Illúvatar, natyë manar _._ " he snapped. Glorfindel made an indignant sound and began striding after the other ellon, his captain quickly following in his wake.

"Uin!" he insisted. Lucy didn't bother staying around to listen to the rest, nor did she choose to continue exploring. Without another backwards glance, she returned to her bedroom.

* * *

Two weeks after the dinner incident, Glorfindel had a panic attack.

It was obvious that despite his claims of knowing her, the ellon had little practical experience in dealing with humans other than what acquainted elves had told him. And while Glorfindel was gregarious and beautiful and utterly affectionate, he was also prone to constant stress and worry, particularly over Lucy.

It wasn't hard to understand his collapse, in truth. The creature had yet to make a return, but Lucy was so paranoid and Glorfindel was so shaken by her initial outburst that he was constantly on edge, obsessively searching for the cause of her distress without ever finding the source. And still it was more than that; a dangerous quirk in his personality that had been there long before his fixation with Lucy had started. Lucy had already known there was something _off_ about the elf lord, and had suspected as much long before she was transferred into his care. Now that she was living with him, the ticks in Glorfindel's behavior became all the more apparent.

It was in the way he stared at her, and how he stared at others; how open and honest he was with everyone, and how guileless his manner could be in a way that was downright childlike. There **was** something there – a horrible, crippling sort of sadness that lurked just beneath the surface – but it wasn't malignant. Instead, the sadness seemed to be old and faded, but prone to flaring up. Glorfindel was very good at ignoring the things he didn't want to deal with, although Lucy found this selective ambivalence came at too steep a price. With everything else it was impossible for the elf lord to keep his distance, as if his willpower had been utterly used up. He felt things **too** intensely, and had no filter to protect himself from even the slightest amount of stress.

Less than a month into living with him, and already it was apparent to Lucy that this lack of _distance_ and Glorfindel's friendly, empathetic nature made him horribly unbalanced. The incident in the dining room seemed to have thrown him for such a loop that it was actually disturbing to watch how he visibly degraded. Gradually, Glorfindel began to twitch at the slightest sound, the _picking_ motion of his hands when he tugged on his sleeves becoming violent in his subconscious fervour to occupy his fingers. He began to get a haunted look around the eyes, his bottom lip taking on a swollen quality as he gnawed on it constantly. This was often done in conjuncture with the sleeve picking. Whenever Aeloth caught him doing it, she would loom over him with her hands on her hips and reprimand him like some sort of avenging nanny. Still, Lucy got the impression that she was worried, rather than upset. Glorfindel's staff were exceptionally fond of him. The elf lord may have devoted an inordinate amount of time to her, but he treated everyone with fairness, and went out of his way to make sure that all their needs were provided for. In return, the other elves tried to take care of Lucy so that he would not, but Glorfindel was stubborn and single-minded.

He wanted to help her, despite all better judgement to the contrary. He wanted affection, and seemingly hers alone. Compounding this strain on the elf lord's nerves was the visible manifestations of Lucy's poor health. She was doing much better than she had in the dungeons, but she'd never fully recovered from her fall or her extended captivity. Being above ground and in open air tended to make her chronic symptoms worse. Lucy was always cold, and when the air became thick with moisture, it would set off a series of constant, low-grade coughs. This was more of an annoyance to her than anything else, but Glorfindel seemed convinced she was nearing death's door whenever he so much as heard a sound. The elf lord's instinctual response to Lucy's frailty was to smother her with attention, with blankets and warm fires in the hearth even though it was the middle of summer. Lucy had a vague, unformed memory of Tommy telling her that elves didn't deal well with emotional stress, but Glorfindel wasn't dealing at **all**.

What caused the panic attack in the end, however, was none of these things. Rather, it was the simple fact that Glorfindel seemed to be ignorant of the fact that humans slept with their eyes closed. At least, that’s what they’d **told** her afterwards.

Ever since the dining room incident, Lucy had been accompanied by a guide. Aeloth stayed with her throughout the night, and during the day she was either in the presence of the elleth and Morwen, or the elf lord himself. Each morning Lucy would have breakfast with him, during which Glorfindel would spend his time picking morosely at his too-sweet food and pretending not to stare. Afterwards, he would lurk in the shadows, watching with blatant longing as she conversed with Morwen or Aeloth, but not himself.

Glorfindel's afternoons were filled with meetings and military exercises, with nightly treks outside the city to patrol the valley. Often, he wouldn't return until the next morning. Lucy never saw him in the evenings, which was why no one had thought to tell him that humans slept _odd_. He should’ve known, all things considered, because he doted on her and everyone under the sun and the stars had assumed that he would. It hadn't been an issue until now.

That night the evening routine had progressed as usual. Lucy had eaten supper in her room: a small plate of sautéed tubers that looked like mushrooms, and a bowl of warm broth that Aeloth fed her every night. After dinner the elleth had sewn by candlelight while Lucy dawdled. When it came time for bed, Aeloth had pulled back the covers while Lucy had fetched her kitten, which was over playing by the dollhouse. Lucy dutifully crawled beneath the duvet, tucking the animal in at her side. She was relatively attached to it now, as it was nice to sleep with something warm. She didn't like being alone.

Aeloth had seemed slightly rushed as she'd tucked her in, but not by much. When she looked down at Lucy, smoothing out the covers beneath her chin, her gaze had taken on a distant quality as she seemed to fall into reminiscence about an earlier time.

"Hana anaië anann pan im gar ortha hên." she mused. It was the only indication Lucy received that something was awry.

Afterwards Lucy had fallen asleep, assured in the knowledge that Aeloth was guarding the window and the guards were guarding the door. The vibration of the kitten's tiny purrs against her chest as it inhaled and exhaled had been soothing as she drifted off to sleep. Sometime later, Lucy was violently shaken awake by someone's hand on her shoulder.

She jolted into consciousness with the movement, groggy and disoriented as something soft and heavy came to weigh down on her chest. The kitten woke up, mewling at the disturbance as it unfurled from its spot. Lucy registered the rustle of fabric as her covers were ripped aside and she was exposed to the chilly night air.

"Wha –" she mumbled, trying to wake up and center herself in the here and now. Before Lucy could move away from the disturbance, large hands were sweeping down and pulling her up into a sitting position, despite her vocal protests. The soft, heavy weight tumbled from her chest to her lap. Lucy attempted to bat the hands away, but was unsuccessful. "What – what is it – **stop** –"

The hands that were feeling over her face were cold. Startling cold, like dead fish without the slime. A shiver ran through her at the contact, and Lucy's eyes snapped open. Even in the moonlit darkness, she could tell it was Glorfindel standing over her. The elf lord was visibly shaken, his eyes wide and expression terrified. The soft weight on her lap was his unbound hair, thick and riotous as it tumbled over her like spools of fine-spun gold. He was still dressed in his armor.

"Lucy," he gasped as he gripped her cheek, his other hand coming up to feel the pulse of the side of her neck. Again, Lucy was hit with a sensation of coldness _._ There was a hitch to Glorfindel's voice that verged on hysterical. "Lucy, are you dead?"

The anger was instantaneous. Lucy wanted to hit him, she was so mad. She had been sleeping, and he had woken her up for **this**.

"Let me go!" she slurred, pushing against his chest. He didn't move. In fact, the elf lord seemed unable to. At first Lucy tried to pry his hands off her, but Glorfindel was shaking so badly she could feel it when she gripped his wrists. His skin was like ice, and there was a _clicking_ sound from somewhere in front of her. It took Lucy a moment to realize it was the sound of his teeth chattering. That got her attention real quick.

"You cannot be dead." Glorfindel choked out between chattering teeth. "Please. Polúldë vanwa, polúldë, tuláldë ata –"

"Stop." Lucy pleaded, trying to drag herself away from him. "Glorfindel, stop, m'awake. Let go –"

The kitten had managed to right itself, crawling over to paw at Glorfindel's side. The elf lord ignored it, his grip tightening as he tangled one of his hands in her hair. He was shaking to the point of convulsions, swaying where he stood. Instinctively, Lucy grabbed his wrists to try and steady him, but it was no use.

"Uilyë cuivëa?" he stuttered. "Lucy, Lucy, I cannot –"

"Glorfindel, stop." she pleaded. "Stop. I think you're sick." She pulled backwards from his hands as her feet began pushing against the covers, but Glorfindel was shivering so badly his hands were locking up. Suddenly, holding onto his arms became less about making him let go and more about making sure he didn't fall. "Glorfindel?" Lucy asked. She hated the way her voice wavered, but she was scared and half awake and completely confused as to what was going on. Glorfindel was colder than any elf had a right to be, and his teeth were chattering so hard he sounded like he was on the verge of hypothermia.

"I think you need to see Aeloth." Lucy told him. Then, as a half-desperate afterthought "You aren't – you aren't supposed to be in my room. I told you _no_." Glorfindel ignored her.

"Lucy, boeldë cuivëa." he insisted, his grip on her tightening, his forehead pressing harshly against hers.

"I think you need Aeloth." Lucy repeated, her own voice rising with hysteria. He had very big hands, and she had a very small neck. She didn't want him touching her. Not when he was like this. His hold on her was so tight it actually _hurt_. "Glorfindel, let go. Please."

"Lucy, please. I cannot –"

"Let go."

"Im úva colta. Im úva. Ala ata –"

"LET GO!" Managing to wriggle her foot free, Lucy kicked out, hitting him hard in the chest. Glorfindel let go. And then he was falling.

The fall was abrupt and terrifying in its unexpectedness. Glorfindel went boneless, collapsing to the floor beside Lucy's bed. Lucy let out a startled yelp. Before she could think her actions through, she was reaching out and grabbing his hand. She missed by a hairsbreadth, and Glorfindel pooled in a golden mass just below her, his arms curled convulsively in his lap. Under the light of the moon, he was white as a sheet.

"HELP!" Lucy screamed.

Quickly, she pushed her kitten out of the way and scrambled over the bed to see where he had fallen. The elf lord looked like he was going to be sick, his breaths short and shallow. Lucy rolled herself off the bed and sunk to the floor in front of him, but even as she did so the door was slamming open and Aeloth was stepping into the bedroom, followed closely by a guard. Her walk turning into a run when she saw the state Glorfindel was in.

"Ai, no!" Aeloth cursed as she rushed forward, reaching for the elf lord with visible panic. "Oh pitya laurinamo, ala ata."

"What's wrong with him?" Lucy asked, her voice sounding far too shrill. Aeloth ignored her and sunk down beside Glorfindel, pushing Lucy out of the way. "What's wrong with him?!" Lucy demanded. Aeloth continued to ignore her. The elleth put her hand to Glorfindel's head and the other to his chest. Glorfindel reacted and began to babble to Aeloth in that strange elven language he used whenever he was upset.

"Se vanwa." he told Aeloth. The elleth made a shushing noise, trying to sooth him. "Aeloth, se vanwa, nás olca ar se vanwa, nás ninya ulca –"

"Se ala vanwa." Aeloth assured him in that same elvish tongue, running her hand in circles over his chest when his shallow breathing turned to hyperventilation. Lucy shrunk back, feeling out of place and struck dumb with the instinctual knowledge that she shouldn't be seeing this. That Glorfindel wouldn't **want** her to see this. He was so careful not to upset her.

"Nyarin darthaldë ettë." Aeloth chastised the elf lord in that calm manner of hers, but it was tinged with fear.

"Se oantë." Glorfindel insisted, still white as a sheet.

Aeloth reached deftly behind herself, grasping Lucy's hand in an acrobatic move and yanking her roughly into view. Lucy bit down on her lip to stifle a yelp, trying to subtly squirm away, but the elleth held tight.

"Lucy sísië." Aeloth said. "Véla? Anes húmë, hondo-ninya. Edain húmë imi hyana lé."

Glorfindel looked at Lucy, or at least he tried to look at her. His gaze was unfocused.

"Inyë vélarya." he began, trying to take a deep breath in order to speak, but failing miserably. His teeth were still chattering. "Inyë vela –"

"Vélaldë ulca." Aeloth insisted. "Nalyë acca enwina an sina, hondo-ninya. Nalyë boe sere imlë." When Glorfindel continued to stare in Lucy's general direction, his breathing far too faint, Aeloth pressed her free hand against his chest, as if reminding him to breathe.

"Laurëfindil," Aeloth said firmly, trying to capture his attention while she kept a death grip on Lucy, who was still attempting to squirm away. "Laurëfindil, nalyë boe rîn súya."

Something nagged at Lucy then. A word she'd heard over and over, and didn't know the meaning of. The other elves only ever used it around Glorfindel when he was upset. Lucy uttered it without really thinking about why she did so.

"Laurëfindil?" she wondered aloud.

Glorfindel cam back to himself all in a rush, and suddenly his trembling was even worse than before. When his gaze finally focused on Lucy, his eyes widened with horror. The elf lord looked very vulnerable in that moment, his shame naked for all to see. His hands reached up to cover his mouth, and Glorfindel leaned over until he was nearly bent double, his golden head bowed and shoulders shaking. Aeloth made a shushing noise at the sight of his distress, her free hand going to his shoulder as she began to rub soothing circles across it. The elf lord looked like he was in pain. Terrible pain, and Lucy didn't like seeing it.

"What's Laurëfindil?" she said, trying to distract herself. The word seemed important, and seeing him so upset made **her** upset. He was too nice to be in so much agony. "What's it mean?"

"Navnányë laiwa." Glorfindel confessed. He sounded more cognizant than he had before. Immediately Aeloth was letting go of Lucy and reaching forward, sliding her hand beneath the elf lord's arm so he could lean against her and she could help him stand. Glorfindel clenched his fingers in the material by Aeloth's shoulder to keep himself steady. His other hand remained firmly pressed across his mouth. When the two elves were upright, he swayed where he stood, stumbling over his feet.

Aeloth said something to the guard standing by the doorway. He immediately stepped forward to help. As he did so, Glorfindel quickly jerked away from him while still trying to keep his hold on Aeloth. He shook his head feverishly, the clacking of his teeth audible.

"Ui." he said. His voice was slightly muffled by his hand, and definitely slurred. "Ui, nauvan mára."

The guard did not looked pleased by this proclamation, and neither did Aeloth, but when Glorfindel spoke again, he bowed reluctantly and left. A moment later Aeloth and Glorfindel left as well, and rather hurriedly at that. The elleth turned to look at Lucy before the two of them stepped out of the door.

"Nauvan hí apa." she said. Lucy didn't understand what she was saying, and Glorfindel seemed so distraught by her presence that he didn't glance in her direction even once. Moments later the door closed softly behind them.

Lucy was left enclosed in darkness, save for a single beam of light that snuck in from underneath the doorway. Outside, the sky was dark and covered in clouds. From her bed, the kitten mewled. Lucy crawled back up to greet it, drawing it to her chest and huddling deep beneath the blankets as she tried to discern exactly what had happened when she failed to fall asleep. Self consciously, she reached up to where Glorfindel had gripped her, wincing as her fingers ran along the spots where he had held her by the neck. His hold had been tight. Lucy couldn't see for sure in the darkness, but she was almost certain there would be bruising.

* * *

After – many, **many** hours after, when the sky had lightened to navy blue instead of black – a tired looking Aeloth finally returned and fetched Lucy from her bedroom. She said not a word as she dressed Lucy in her night-robe, before leading her down a hallway towards an unknown chamber. Lucy had never been to this particular wing of the estate, as ever since she'd been moved from the dungeons she tended to stick to her bedroom. The place that Aeloth led her was completely unfamiliar, located on the same floor as Lucy's room but situated on the opposite side.

The hallway leading to it seemed lonely. Lucy didn't know exactly why she thought this, as the hall itself was delicately arched and lined on either side with beautifully steepled windows. Perhaps it was the emptiness. There was no furniture in the corridor, and no carpet, and at the very end there was a single door next to a small glassy lamp that was slightly dimmed. The only sound Lucy could hear in the hallway was her own; the _shff_ of her long robe dragging along the cool stone floor in a rhythmic shuffle.

When they reached the door, Aeloth placed her hand to the front and pushed inwards, the door sliding open on near-silent hinges as she leaned forward and put her weight against it. She put her other hand to Lucy's shoulder, drawing her inside. Lucy was reluctant, but she only struggled a bit. In truth she was nervous for reasons she couldn't really articulate, as seeing Glorfindel in such a state had actually shaken her.

Inside the room was revealed to be a corner of the tower, lined with floor-length windows on two facing sides. It was smaller than Lucy would have expected, and it was dark, with the curtains drawn to drown out any sort of illumination. The only light Lucy could discern was the one from the hallway lantern, spilling inwards in a soft blue glow. Lucy spied the shape of a large bed, along with a table and several other objects she couldn't make heads or tails of. Glorfindel was sitting in a chair by the window, slouched over with one arm atop the armrest, his slim hand dangling limply in midair. His other hand was braced against his eyes, covering them from view. His shoulders were hunched in what looked like exhaustion.

Sitting in front of the elf lord was another ellon, leaning forward with his hand on Glorfindel's knee as he spoke to him. Lucy couldn't tell whom it was in the darkness, and she didn't want to. The scene was too personal, too not-for-her, but Aeloth's hand was firm against her back. Eventually she dragged her forward until the two of them were standing only a foot away. When they approached, the other ellon looked up. With a start, Lucy realized it was Aearmarth.

"Né ten sael an tog dín sí?" he asked his twin. Before Aeloth could respond Glorfindel spoke. He sounded as tired as he looked, and once again Lucy was disquieted by this. Elves didn't strike her as the tired sort.

"Maer ná." he mumbled. "Im iest ten."

"Are you feeling better?" Lucy asked him. She didn't want to talk to Glorfindel, but she also wanted to know. The elf lord lowered his hand from his face and turned his head in her direction, his shoulders still heavy. Lucy couldn't see his expression clearly in the dark, but she knew he was looking at her intently. "You **should** be better." Lucy warned him, trying to find the words. "You have to be better, because you told me you were going to kill it. You have to kill the creature."

Suddenly there was a tickling sensation against her ear; a gentle hush, like the echo of someone's breathe as they exhaled along her skin. Lucy didn't pay attention to it at first, but a moment later, she heard it.

_That's a cruel thing to say,_ mused the voice. The whispering was back. _I only sent it to check on you._

Lucy stiffened, and before she knew what she was doing she reached over and grasped Glorfindel's hand. His hand was much larger than hers, and so terribly cold. Lucy squeezed his fingers between her own, but he continued to stare at her blankly, and made no move to return the gesture.

"You're better, aren't you?" she said, her voice taking on a sharp edge. "You can hear it too, right? The whispering?"

"Ná lû he istui Sindarin" Aeloth said to her brother. She sounded resigned. At that moment Aearmarth deftly reached over and disentangled Lucy's hand from Glorfindel's, pulling her back. Lucy didn't say anything, but Glorfindel did, seeming to snap back to life and lifting his hand in Lucy's direction as his seneschal removed her.

"Wait –" he began plaintively.

"Hana farn." Aearmarth said, cutting him off curtly. He sounded annoyed. Lucy could feel it too, in the way he gripped her hand too tightly and steered her without compunction towards the door.

"I said wait –" Glorfindel continued, making to rise.

"Hana **farn**." Aearmarth insisted, then as he turned briefly to his sister "Ci ú gar ann dín sí."

Aearmarth led Lucy back to her room himself. Aeloth didn't follow.

Once he deposited her in her bedroom, Lucy quickly scurried under her bed. She grabbed her blanket and kitten and hid with both of them beneath the mattress for the rest of the night. There was no more whispering, and the next morning – when it came time to give her a bath – she was assisted by a strange, dark-haired elleth she'd never seen before. Her name was _Maeleth_ , she was told later, and although she was polite, she was so anxious she had a habit of jumping at her own shadow. The elleth reminded Lucy a bit of a rabbit: all wide-eyed, twitching and harried.

At breakfast, Glorfindel was drinking wine.

Aeloth was still conspicuously absent, and Aearmarth spent much of the meal watching the elf lord like a hawk. Lucy had no appetite at first, but it wasn't for the usual reasons. Glorfindel appeared far too pale, and in the light of day he was white as a ghost as he picked at his food, his eyes shadowed as he shakily sipped at his wine. He wouldn't even meet her gaze from across the table. Lucy didn't like him like it. She didn't mind when his morbidity lurked beneath the surface, but seeing the elf lord's sadness on full display made her downright upset and uncomfortable. He couldn't fight a balrog this way. He couldn't even fight the creature. The ellon looked a mess, and elves weren't supposed to be a mess, because Tommy had told her as such and Lucy was almost _offended_ to see anything to the contrary. She spent most of her breakfast stewing in anger as she watched Glorfindel.

Finally, when she could take no more of it, Lucy stood in a huff, her chair scraping loudly behind her. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

Glorfindel looked up at her from over the rim of his wine glass, the goblet paused in mid-air as he brought it towards his lips. His eyes were wide, his expression apprehensive as he returned her gaze. He seemed almost scared of her. It only made Lucy angrier.

Very deliberately she grabbed the back of her chair, clumsily dragging it around the table until she had situated it beside Glorfindel's, no more than a foot apart. Once that was done Lucy grabbed her plate, shuffling it across the table to her new position before she pulled back her chair and sat down, making herself comfortable beside the elf lord.

Glorfindel remained very still throughout, watching as she sat there and began to angrily shovel food in her mouth. He really did look unwell up close. So unwell that Lucy was worried for him. When it became apparent that she wasn't going to get up and run away, Glorfindel relaxed, but only slightly. As he put his wineglass down, Lucy noticed his hand was shaking. The elf lord hadn't touched a single thing upon his plate, and Lucy decided she didn't like this either. Impulsively she grabbed the peach off her own plate and held it out to him, waving it in front of his face to get his attention.

"Eat." she said. "You need to eat too. Don't be a hypocrite. I don't like them."

Glorfindel eyed the peach like it was evil incarnate, but Lucy kept waving it in front of his face until he took it. The movement of his hand was slow and hesitant. Once he grabbed the offering, Lucy went back to gnawing on her bread. Glorfindel still looked ill and haunted around the eyes, but as he stared at the peach he seemed to relax further, his shoulders sagging and his head bowing as he mechanically bit into his meal.

Aearmarth was staring at them funny, but Lucy didn't care. She was just glad Glorfindel was eating. Maybe he'd been less of a mess after breakfast, and then they could hunt down the creature together.

_I've always liked the Noldor,_ the voice mused abruptly. _They break so beautifully._ There was a delicate pause, then –

_Maitimo was my favourite._

Lucy jumped a foot in her seat and nearly sent her plate flying all over again. And suddenly, she was **angry**. She stood in a rush and dragged her chair even closer to Glorfindel's, until their armrests were touching. The poor ellon had been so spooked by the sudden movement that he was shivering again, his expression somewhat traumatized as he stared out across the table. Aearmarth was already half out of his seat, as if to go to him. Lucy sat back down, shoulder to shoulder. She gripped Glorfindel's hand in hers as she continued on with her breakfast. This time, the elf lord gripped her back. His skin was warmer than it had been the night before, but not by much.

_Lucy, you can't hide forever,_ the voice crooned on a dulcet whisper. _I'll find you. You know I will._

Lucy ignored it. For the rest of the meal, she didn't move from her spot beside Glorfindel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing. And thank you to all for the kudos!
> 
> GLOSSARY  
> As the glossary is longer, I've once again included the names. Standard grammar warnings apply. 
> 
> [Ecthelion] Natyë maerdir, im cen – You are looking better, I see (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Manen ci sí – Why/how (are) you here
> 
> [Ecthelion] Illúvatar, natyë manar – Illúvatar, you are doomed (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Uin – I am not (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Hana anaië anann pan im gar ortha hên – It has been (a) long time since I've raised (a) child (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Polúldë vanwa, polúldë, tuláldë ata – You can't be dead, you can't, you just came back (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Uilyë cuivëa – (Why) are you not waking (up) (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lucy, boeldë cuivëa – Lucy, you must wake up (Quenya) 
> 
> [Glorfindel] Im úva colta. Im úva. Ala ata – I cannot bear it. I cannot. Not again (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Oh pitya laurinamo, ala ata – Oh little golden one, not again (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Se vanwa. Aeloth, se vanwa, nás olca ar se vanwa, nás ninya ulca – She's dead. Aeloth, she's dead, it's bad and she's dead, it's my fault/wrong (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Se ala vanwa – She's not dead (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Nyarin darthaldë ettë – I told you to wait outside (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Se oantë – She went away (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Lucy sísië. Véla? Anes húmë, hondo-ninya. Edain húmë imi hyana lé – Lucy is here. See? She was sleeping, my darling/heart. Edain sleep in other ways (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Inyë vélarya. Inyë vela – I saw her. I saw (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Vélaldë ulca. Nalyë acca enwina an sina, hondo-ninya. Nalyë boe sere imlë – You saw wrong. You are too old for this, my dear. You must calm/rest yourself (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Laurefindil, nalyë boe rîn súya – Laurëfindil, you must remember to breathe (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Navnányë laiwa – I think I'm (going to be) ill (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ui. Ui, nauvan mára – No. No, I will be fine (Quenya)
> 
> [Aeloth] Nauvan hí apa – I will be here after/later
> 
> [Aearmarth] Né ten sael an tog dín sí – Was it wise to bring her here
> 
> [Glorfindel] Maer ná. Im iest ten – It is fine. I wish it
> 
> [Aeloth] Ná lû he istui Sindarin – It's time she learned Sindarin
> 
> [Aearmarth] Hana farn. Ci ú gar ann dín sí – That's enough. You (should) not have brought her here


	16. Idril

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised March 26, 2016

In the immediate aftermath of Glorfindel’s breakdown, there was such a dearth of focus on the incident that Lucy wondered if the subject was actually taboo. The fact that everyone was hiding something from her – and blatantly, at that – made her unbelievably upset. Seeing Glorfindel's vulnerability on full display reminded her too much of Tommy: Tommy, who time and again had shown blatant signs of distress, and each time her cries for help had been silenced. It was obvious that there was something wrong with the elf lord, and that it wasn't going away any time soon. Lucy was not an activist by any means, as most times she was downright apathetic, but self-preservation and a lack of options had a way of motivating her goodwill. Glorfindel was her best bet for any sort of protection, and he cared for her, but he was obviously malfunctioning on some level or another, so Lucy tried to do something about it.

"You have to fix him." she told Aeloth one day, through Morwen. The three of them were sitting in the solar next to Lucy's bedroom, as the weather was surprisingly hot. "He's not working right."

Morwen hadn't really understood what Lucy was saying, but she'd translated it anyways. Instantly Aeloth shut down, her face becoming a blank mask and her hands stilling. Her ash brown hair rustled down her front as she tilted her head to observe her embroidery. Her voice was cool as she spoke.

"Aeloth tells me there is nothing wrong with the Lord Glorfindel." Morwen relayed.

Lucy wanted to scream. She wanted to speak the same language, so she could tell the elves just how angry she was with the whole lot of them over how they were acting. "If you don't fix Glorfindel, the balrog will kill him." Lucy warned. She knew they would react to **that**.

Sure enough, Aeloth's nostrils flared slightly. Her left ear twitched and her hands clenched tightly around her embroidery hoop. Her words weren't angry, but when she spoke it was with a passive aggressive candor.

"The Lord Glorfindel is fine. You are imagining things." Morwen translated. "Children often do."

"I am **not** a child." Lucy insisted. But she was, at least to them. She may have been sixteen-going-on-seventeen, but by Noldor standards she was still underage. Humans were delicate and short lived, Aeloth informed her, so twenty was when she would gain her freedom. Even still her options would be restricted once she became independent, as she was _Edain_. Lucy was told all of this with a straight face, without any irony or self-awareness whatsoever. When Lucy protested, Aeloth grew annoyed. Of course the Noldor wouldn't consider her an adult before then, she said. _Yes_ , she knew perfectly well Edain thought differently, but their practice of taking child brides was barbaric.

It was the first in a series of hard lessons Lucy learned about the Noldor; about their patronizing way of looking down on other races, Sindar included. Those under their majority had very few rights, and as a human – as a human **child** , Aeloth insisted – Lucy had none at all, save for those that Glorfindel gave to her. The elf lord had the final say over every aspect of her life, but he was away most days, so Lucy was left with nothing. Her 'free time' followed a rigidly structured pattern, so much so that sometimes she wished she were back in the dungeons. At least there, her confinement was out in the open.

_I have dungeons,_ the voice chimed in as she was thinking this through. _You're welcome to visit._

Lucy let out a scream and threw a nearby teapot at the wall, the contents shattering across the floor. Morwen jumped in her seat, and both she and Aeloth looked up in shock. One of the guards poked his head inside the room to see to the commotion.

"You can hear it, can't you?" Lucy said desperately, fists clenched as she turned towards them. She **needed** someone to understand, other than herself. The whispering was a constant, and it was driving her crazy. "You can hear the voices, right?!"

Aeloth's expression was blank as ever. Morwen's wasn't. As Lucy stared at her, her visage flickered.

The glitch was so quick Lucy wouldn't have caught it if she hadn't already been looking, but she was, and for a brief, minuscule second Morwen's face melted into a wraith's. Her hands shrunk until they were nothing but skin and bones. Then the vision dissipated.

"What in Eru's name are you talking about?" Morwen demanded.

The transition had been so quick that for a brief moment Lucy wondered if she had actually imagined it, but _no_ , she knew. She wasn't blind. They were all lying to her, and she hated it. She wanted to rage.

"The voice." she insisted angrily. "Can't you hear it? It's speaking to me."

Morwen had the grace to look alarmed. "There is no voice, Sweetling," she chastised, if gently. "The elves, they would have heard it, yes? They have good ears."

"Do you remember what happened the last time you ignored me?" Lucy spat, her fists still clenched. Her voice was shrill. "Do you remember?" She turned to Aeloth and pointed. "People will **die** if you don't listen to me. I'll make sure of it."

Elves did not take well to threats, Lucy learned. Noldor especially. An hour later, all the sharp objects had been removed from her room, and her guards were tripled. The next morning she was brought before Glorfindel.

Lucy hadn't seen much of Glorfindel since the night he'd panicked, and while she often ate breakfast with him, the ellon seemed more tied down with his duties than ever. Lucy had not seen anyone else of importance since his impromptu breakdown, but when Aeloth came to fetch her, the elleth was more attentive about her appearance than usual. She scrubbed Lucy's skin free of dirt, after which she brushed her hair until it gleamed. The dress she made her don was ridiculously opulent; a pale blue gown that matched the color of her eyes. Matching slippers were placed on her feet, and around her neck Aeloth draped a silver pendant with a single milky stone. Over all of this was placed an ivory under-robe, and then a sleeveless blue robe atop that, the back embroidered with the motif of a flower. There were so many layers of clothing that she felt like some sort of doll on display. As Aeloth braided blue ribbons into her hair, Lucy just sat there, stiff and formal in front of her mirror. Her feet dangled a foot off the ground. She looked ridiculously tiny in her giant silk robes, and very childlike.

"Where are we going?" she asked Morwen, who was waiting by the door and dressed just as opulently as herself. "Are we going to see the King?" Lucy didn't trust Morwen – she trusted no one at the moment, save for maybe Glorfindel – but she had no one else to ask. Morwen pursed her lips in thought, but no wraith visage emerged. The vision was so inconsistent that Lucy couldn't make heads or tails of it. Maybe it meant nothing at all.

"I do not think so." Morwen said. "The King and his lords, they have been busy, yes?"

"I want to see Glorfindel." Lucy said. She was on the verge of demanding it.

"You will." Morwen assured her.

"Good."

Aeloth and the guards led the two of them along the hallway to Glorfindel's study. As they drew near, Lucy could hear the sound of two people talking, both of whom had voices that were distinctly elvish in pitch. One of them definitely belonged to Glorfindel; Lucy could recognize his lilting, musical tone anywhere. The other was higher and more feminine sounding, and she was fairly certain it belonged to an elleth. When they entered the room Aearmarth was already there, as were several other important-looking elves that didn't belong to Glorfindel’s household. All but one of them was female, and almost all of them were dark-haired.

There was an elleth sitting beside Glorfindel. She looked up as Lucy entered.

The strange elleth had porcelain skin and startling blue eyes, and the similarities between Glorfindel and her were so strong that instantly Lucy was struck with the notion that the two of them were the same _species_. It was an odd thing to think, because elves were elves in Lucy's mind, regardless of factional observances. Like the elf lord, the elleth was very blond and dressed in ivory. When she smiled her grin was tinged with what looked like mischief and _open-ness_. She was exceptionally beautiful.

The elleth shifted in her chair as Lucy approached, crossing her feet delicately at the ankles as she clasped her hands together. She was barefoot, and as she leaned forward her long hair fell to the side, revealing an ear. Lucy was surprised to see that even her ears were the same as Glorfindel’s, the points exceedingly sharp and delicate.

"Hello Lucy." the elleth said. "Ná maer govadh." She eyed her from head to toe, but her expression was not patronizing, so Lucy didn't mind it. "My, but you **are** pretty." the elleth declared. At that, Lucy did a double take. For a moment she wondered if she'd misheard her. Glorfindel looked up when the elleth spoke, then quickly glanced away, lowering his head and biting on his bottom lip as he fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. He'd been sitting beside the elleth the entire time in silence, and it didn't take a genius to see that he was upset. Over what, Lucy couldn’t say. The other elf seemed absolutely unaffected by Glorfindel's anxiety, and when he looked down she nudged him hard in the arm to get his attention, her words teasing.

"Ai, Laurëfindil, ná hen gard thurin ín?"

"I have **not** been hiding her." Glorfindel declared waspishly. The elleth's grin became downright toothy. Morwen waved her hand in their direction.

"This is Idril Silverfoot," the woman said. "The King's daughter. She has come to visit you."

Without thinking Lucy pointed at the elleth named Idril, her gaze going from the princess to the elf lord.

"You look the same," she declared.

Morwen translated this, and Idril laughed so loudly and without restraint that she almost started crying, the sound rich and full of mirth. When she finally stopped Idril sighed, wiping a bit of moisture away from her eye. The elleth seemed young, and very self-assured, and when she spoke her words were drawling and companionable.

"Both their mothers were Vanyar." Morwen explained. "They are not full Noldor, only half." Idril winked at Lucy, and Lucy decided that she liked her. Glorfindel flinched noticeably while this was explained, and as he did the princess placed a friendly hand atop his arm, as if to reassure him. The elf lord hadn't recovered from his outburst yet, and he looked paler than usual.

"Is that why both your ears are so sharp?" Lucy asked. When Morwen relayed her words, Glorfindel blushed beet red and instantly reached up to cover his ears with his hands; hastily patting down the golden locks in a futile attempt to make them lie flat atop his head. He looked ashamed, and was definitely unhappy with Lucy's observation.

Idril wasn't. She well aware of the other elf's discomfort, but smiled indulgently and answered all the same.

"Yes." Morwen translated for her. "It is a Vanyar feature, along with the hair."

"Are you always blond?"

"Yes. Just like the Teleri are often silver."

Lucy didn't know what _Teleri_ were, and didn't care. "How old are you?" she blurted out. She was insatiably curious on the matter. Morwen looked offended by the question, but Idril merely grinned.

"Just over five hundred." The woman said for her. "The Lady Idril, she tells me she is young for an elf." When Glorfindel kept blushing and looking down at his lap, Idril nudged him with her elbow again, speaking to him in a low voice. He shook his head violently, picking at his sleeve, and Idril sighed.

"The Lord Glorfindel is not much older than she, the Lady tells me." Morwen said. "The two of them were children when they crossed the Helcaraxë."

"I was **not** a child!" Glorfindel declared, looking up at Idril with a wounded expression. Idril rolled her eyes.

"You were close," she said. Lucy understood the words easily enough.

"Anen odo a caer." he insisted.

 Idril was obviously unimpressed. "Canad a caer idhrinn iaur. Ai, iaur a cûn di golu, anel."

"Aliaew nin." Glorfindel groused. He looked terribly put out.

"Nányë i aranel." Idril sing-songed. "Nányë lavan iaewd. Pityalos, ui danna torn."

There was a friendliness about the princess that immediately put Lucy at ease; an on-the-level upfront-ness without a veneer that made Lucy want to trust her. The elleth was lovely, and normally beauty threw her off, but this time there was no twinge of suspicion. No rot beneath the skin. Suddenly, Lucy remembered something. Her eyes widened, and she pointed at Idril again, this time in excitement.

"Maeglin!" she gasped. "You're Maeglin's cousin!"

Idril's smile fell a bit when she mentioned _Maeglin_ , but she recovered so quickly Lucy decided she'd imagined it. The elleth answered easily when Morwen translated Lucy's words.

"Yes, she is Maeglin's cousin. Her father and his mother were siblings."

Lucy was inordinately pleased.

For the first time in a long while, she smiled. The smile was soft, as was typical for her, but it was noticeable enough that Idril returned the gesture. Glorfindel looked at her with limpid eyes and an expression of hurt. Lucy didn't know why.

"I know you." Lucy confessed to Idril, rocking back and forth on her heels as she fiddling with a lock of her own hair. "I know you from before."

Idril grinned indulgently, leaning forward as if to listen. "The Lady Idril wishes to know from _where_." Morwen translated for her.

Lucy answered immediately, ignoring the humming sound that vibrated through the air, like a current of electricity. "From Tommy's books." she gushed, rubbing at her left ear. "The books I brought with me! You're there when Gondolin is destroyed. Maeglin is too, but bad things happen to him."

_So we succeed,_ the voice mused, and suddenly it sounded very close to her. Lucy could almost feel the impression of scorching hot breathe against her skin. Immediately she stopped rubbing at her ear, and slapped her hands over them instead, but it was too late. There was a dense pressure building atop her breastbone that was all too familiar. The good mood in the room abruptly vanished. A hush fell on the chamber, so loud one could hear crickets, but to Lucy it was filled with buzzing, with that _droning_ noise that came just before something bad occurred.

"That." Lucy stuttered. "I don't think I was supposed to say that."

Glorfindel had already been under the weather, and when Lucy blithely mentioned the fall of Gondolin he turned even paler, so much so that his skin took on a waxen quality. Idril tapped her fingernails against the armrests of her chair, her expression flat and angry. Slowly, she turned her head towards the elf lord, her gaze hooded as she glared in his direction.

"Gondolin falls, does it?"

"She does not mean it like –" Glorfindel began.

"Laurëfindil, gard sile sendhir lû."

"Hen ná alceredir o Morgoth." he insisted.

"You stole her from my father's dungeon." Idril deadpanned.

"I did not **steal** her." Glorfindel said emphatically, gripping the armrests on his chair so tight his knuckles popped. "Hen ná min." He looked uncomfortably earnest.

Idril appeared even more unimpressed, but she seemed to lose interest in dealing with the elf lord. Maybe it was safe to say that she knew he was a lost cause. The ellon was completely obstinate when he got into one of his moods, and he was in one now, despite his visible distress. She knew from prior events that there would be absolutely no reasoning with him. Idril turned to Lucy with a patently false smile, her hands neatly clasped in her lap as she spoke.

"The Lady Idril, she is here to teach you Sindarin." Morwen translated. "After that, you will decipher the books."

"Why her?" Lucy blurted out. "Why not Glorfindel?" It was an honest question.

Glorfindel opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Idril was placing her hand on his arm and squeezing hard, her smile turning saccharine.

"The Lord Glorfindel is too busy, and the lady Idril is good with languages. She will be your teacher for now."

Lucy accepted this answer easily enough, as she saw no reason to argue against the arrangement. Glorfindel still seemed upset by it.

* * *

After the odd meeting where Lucy wished more and more that she’d simply kept her mouth shut, the party left Glorfindel's study and headed down the stairs. They were going to the gardens, she was told by Morwen. Lucy didn't know _why_ they were going there, but it was her first time being outside since she had been brought to the estate, so she was curious as to what the gardens looked like.

Lucy wandered ahead of the party for a bit, accompanied by two guards and led by another in front. Morwen walked somewhere behind her, and Aeloth was not far off, while Glorfindel, Idril and her servants walked at the very back, some distance behind them. Lucy meandered down the stairs, swinging her arms. As she walked she began to hum, as there was a certain familial comfort to the action. While she was singing she glanced behind her. The sunlight was streaming in through the open windows lining the stairwell. In the light, Glorfindel appeared ethereal.

The elf lord watched her as she sang, his hair loose and hanging past his hips. He was without his armor again, and dressed in ivory, but Lucy was finally willing to admit that the look suited him, as did the sunlight. Even though he was unnaturally pale, the ellon's complexion combined with the molten gold of his hair made him all the more striking. Absently, Lucy thought that he and Idril looked good together, although Glorfindel was actually lovelier. _Vanyar blood,_ Morwen had called it, and suddenly the ellon’s Noldo face and non-Noldo coloring made sense. Still singing, Lucy turned back around. She wondered if there were any more Vanyar in the city.

As they were making their way down the stairs, their group passed by the front entrance to the building. Waiting by the doors, of all people, was Maeglin. He was talking to a servant of Glorfindel's. Lucy had not expected to see the other elf lord at all, and she was so shocked that she actually let out a startled gasp. Immediately afterwards, she rushed towards him.

"Maeglin!" she called out. Before Morwen or Aeloth could grab her by the back of her collar to keep her in place, Lucy was hurtling down the steps towards him in a cloud of ivory silk and pale blue satin, her dress rustling loudly around her legs. Maeglin turned towards her as she ran, seemingly surprised by Lucy's friendly reaction. Behind her she could hear Glorfindel begin to call out her name, but just as quickly he was cut off, as if someone had physically silenced him.

"Maeglin!" Lucy gasped, rushing forward the last ten yards and hair flying out behind her. "Maeglin! You came!" When she collided with his side, wrapping her arms around his middle, the elf lord let out an _oof_ but responded readily enough. Casually, his hand went to the top of Lucy's head, smoothing down the side before his fingers circled the shell of her ear to tuck away a lock of hair. She looked up.

"Hello Lucy." he said. His tone was drawling. Lucy pouted, clenching her hands in the front of his tunic. The fabric was very soft, and seemed too thick for summer.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. A slight frown marred Maeglin's features, his head tilting to the side as he observed her.

"Andh milui." he mused. Absently he reached up, the pad of his thumb swiping across her cheek beneath her right eye as if to remove an invisible speck of dirt. Lucy scrunched up her nose at the sensation. "Ídhad nin?" he continued.

"Have you come to take me back?" Lucy asked. At that moment a feminine voice rose up behind them, echoing across the cavernous stone entrance with visible chill.

"Maeglin." Idril said coolly. Maeglin turned his head towards the stairs. The look in his eyes became less contemplative, but hungrier. Lucy wasn't a fool. She remembered what Tommy had said and knew Maeglin had followed his cousin to the estate – not her. She still didn't care. The elf lord was her ticket out of there; her less-than-perfect Knight in Shining Armour, whether he wanted the role or not.

Lucy tugged on his sleeve, trying to get his attention. "Maeglin." she insisted. "Maeglin, I have to talk to you."

"Ai, sandh melch." he griped, returning his attention to her as his hand slid absently across her cheek to cup the side of her head. His long fingers tangled in her hair. Lucy let him, leaning into his touch as she looked up imploringly. _Doll eyes,_ she told herself. _Remember the doll eyes._ But the elf lord wasn't looking at her again. He was looking over her shoulder, towards the stairs.

"You are being too forward." Idril warned him. She didn't sound pleased. Maeglin shrugged.

"Hen mell nin." was his response. Lucy turned slightly and looked in the same direction. Idril was slowly descending down the last few steps, her expression neutral as she eyed Lucy's proximity to her cousin. Her hands were folded together inside her sleeves as she approached, her skirt swishing around her bare feet.

"Maeglin." she sighed in exasperation. "Why are you here?" The princess and her cousin didn't look alike at all. Their coloring was noticeably different, and while Maeglin had a Noldo face, Idril had obviously taken after her mother.

Glorfindel hovered by Idril's side, his expression disturbingly blank as his gaze fixated on Maeglin's fingers curling in Lucy's hair. The dark-haired elf lord sounded smooth and unconcerned as he spoke. He was used to situations like this, Lucy realized; he was used to dealing with Idril, and seemed to get enjoyment out of making Glorfindel uncomfortable. There was unspoken history there, and none of it good.

"Turgon leltanin." he told the princess. "E iest pedo i Fëanorians."

Idril did not look entirely convinced, her lips twisting into a frown as she stared down at him from the second to last step. "What did they do now?" she sighed. Maeglin shrugged, utterly unconcerned.

"Albain, nányë sûl. Fingon anbad ab Maedhros, ata."

Lucy perked up at the name of _Maedhros._ It sounded slightly familiar, but for reasons she couldn't quite recall. Idril sighed again and gathered her skirts about her ankles, descending down the last two steps. Glorfindel remained on the stairs, watching them with a fixed expression. He was still as a statue, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

"Boed dartha enni ar." Idril told Maeglin, sounding put-out. Maeglin smiled. His smile wasn't really a smile; more of a smirk, his gaze appearing unusually sharp beneath the fall of his long eyelashes. There was a joke there, and one that Lucy didn’t get.

"Maybe." he agreed. With that, he looked down at Lucy, gracing her with a smile. His thumb once again ran slow circles across her cheekbone. "Gerin tírahen min vi á lû." he said.

Idril didn't deign to give Maeglin a response, making a slight sniffing sound of condescension and walking past him. On the stairs, Glorfindel's blank expression was becoming worrisome in its severity. His eyes were wide as he watched the motions of Maeglin's fingers. The other elf lord looked up at him, his hands still on Lucy's head.

"Hello Glorfindel." he said, then "she looks nice."

"That's **enough** _._ " Idril said sharply, cutting him off. Maeglin seemed to relent, and with another dulcet smile he drew away. Before Lucy could protest and chase after him, the elf lord leaned down, gripping her chin in a friendly manner and giving it a slight, good-natured shake. The gesture was patronizing. Lucy frowned and made a sound of rebuke.

"Nauvan dan rato." he told her. "Thelm cen máca hye, ai?"

" **Maeglin**." Idril insisted. The elf lord let go and departed. Glorfindel remained frozen on the stairs. Sighing loudly, Idril quickly came back and took Glorfindel's hand in her own, squeezing it gently in an apologetic manner. The elf lord was no longer looking at Lucy – he was looking at nothing in particular, really, his eyes unfocused and gaze distant.

"I am sorry for leaving so soon," she said. When Glorfindel didn't respond, Idril squeezed his hand harder. "Oh, Pityalos. Uis san ogol. E û thelten." After that Idril left, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting and one of Glorfindel's guards. Maeglin melted away from Lucy without a word, and Lucy watched with growing resentment as he trailed after his golden cousin. When she shifted uncomfortably on the spot, Glorfindel's gaze returned to her. His expression was still blank, but Lucy could tell he was upset. She always knew when he was upset, and she didn't like it.

"Take me to the gardens." She said, aiming for a distraction. She didn't want to be trapped inside anymore.

Glorfindel relented.

* * *

It was quiet in the gardens, and once there the elf lord seemed to bloom beneath the light.

Glorfindel's estate was in the center of the city, but as they entered it was as if a wall of silence fell upon them. All Lucy could hear was the rustle of the leaves as they waved back and forth in the breeze, the chirp of nearby crickets and the occasional trill of a bird. It sounded like a forest; a small forest, even though it wasn't one. The trees were gold, their bark white like birch and their foliage a shimmering yellow in color. Beneath their dappled canopies, the sunlight rippled. There were flowers everywhere, clinging to vines across the stone walls and over the mossy garden floor. Even the moss was gold, undulating in patches from pale yellow to a deep ochre in hue. It was an odd garden, and Lucy was curious about it, but not so curious that she tried to ask.

Glorfindel seemed at home amongst the flora.

Aeloth and Aearmarth had disappeared some time ago, and Morwen along with them. With the exception of a guard posted by the entrance, the two of them were alone. Once they were in the gardens, Glorfindel sat down in a mossy alcove next to the base of the tower, closing his eyes and tilting his face towards the sky. Lucy wandered for a bit, exploring what she could. When she came back with several yellow flowers, plucked and twirling between her fingertips, she was so struck by the sight of him that she actually stopped and stared.

Lucy had never seen Glorfindel with his eyes closed for any length of time, and with a bitter sort of irony she realized that Tommy's sun god really **was** better suited to the sunlight. He was still pale, but out in the open that pallor seemed to lose it gloom. Lucy was so singularly fascinated by the sight of his hair that she actually took a step forward, humming softly and spinning the flowers between her fingers as she eyed him. There were highlights in his heavy mane that set the entire thing alight, and Lucy decided that she liked it. The color was akin to gold and topaz mixed together, melted into a molten river. She was still humming a tune as she approached, and as she did so Glorfindel slowly opened his eyes. He seemed _old_ in that moment, at least internally. He wasn't, though, Lucy knew now. He was young, just like her.

"Lîrd an nin, ab." he said, his words halting and sort of sad. "Né bain."

Lucy continued to hum, stepping closer. "Nar gelird sí?" Glorfindel asked, looking up from his spot on the ground. Lucy didn't know what he was saying at the moment, but then she remembered she'd be able to fairly soon. Idril was going to teach her Sindarin, and Glorfindel had allowed it. Lucy liked that. Impulsively she reached out, bringing one of her flowers forward to place it in his hair.

Glorfindel's hand shot out so fast she barely saw it before he gripped her wrist. His fingers wrapped all the way around, the pressure of them firm but gentle. He stared morosely at the de-headed flower, his eyelids heavy as his gaze shifted back to her face.

"Ald nahta ti." he said sadly, reaching up with his other hand to carefully remove the flower from her grasp. He cradled it in his palm like a newborn baby bird. Lucy didn't understand why he was upset over the flower, but she figured she'd misread the situation. When she tried to place the second flower in his hair, he stopped her again, trapping both her hands in his. His eyebrows furrowed, his voice heavy with disappointment.

"Lucy, no." he said. "Hîn yára Yavanna. Hîn coitë, acca."

"I like your hair." Lucy told him, her wrists trapped between his hands. He stared at her blankly, his gaze still heavy and sad. "Tommy would have liked it, too." she continued. "Tommy loved you." She knew he didn't understand her.

When Glorfindel continued to stare. Lucy made a jerking motion with one of her hands, indicating she wanted to be free. Glorfindel let go of her reluctantly, and Lucy reached forward again – this time sans flower – tugging on a lock of his hair. It felt wonderfully smooth between her fingertips.

"Your hair." she repeated. "I really like it. It looks like gold." Glorfindel seemed like he sort of understood what she was saying from her actions, and he closed his eyes again as Lucy fiddled with a lock of his hair. The elf lord leaned in to her hand as she hummed.

"Ídhad an Maeglin han olya?" he asked.

Lucy understood none of it, save for Maeglin's name.

"Why are you so uncomfortable around him?" she asked. "Why does Maeglin hate you?" This seemed like a very pertinent point, but Glorfindel didn't answer. Lucy grew bored of fiddling with his hair and went to let it drop. The elf lord didn't move from his position as she did so, but he did open his eyes. Stepping to the side, Lucy sat on the ground beside him as she began to create obstacle courses with small sticks for nearby ants to crawl across. Even still she didn't drift far.

The ellon remained silent, his irises appearing like slivers of blue beneath his long eyelashes as he watched her. Eventually, Lucy felt him lean against her, his head resting atop hers as he sluggishly watched her construct an ant hill with a sparse amount of sand. His hands were limp in his lap, his hair soft and warm against her cheek.

"Are you feeling better now?" Lucy asked him, talking more for the sake of something to do than anything else. Glorfindel's head was a comfortable weight atop hers, and Lucy liked it when he was this close, but he never answered. When the elf lord didn't answer, and the air of sadness persisted, she grew annoyed. It was more of an anxious feeling than outright annoyance, but Lucy didn't like being anxious, and Glorfindel should have felt better beneath the sunlight. _Like a plant_ , she thought. She turned to face him, poking him in the side to get him to remove his head from hers. When he did she put one hand against the elf lord's cheek to draw him forward, placing a quick kiss against the other. His skin was soft and smooth beneath her lips.

Glorfindel's eyes went wide. He blinked owlishly at her for a moment, but Lucy simply patted his cheek good-naturedly and went back to constructing her anthill in the sand.

"You should feel better now." she told him imperiously, settling in by his side. "You're not alone, see? Besides, it's been **days**." It was nice outside, and the elf lord was very warm and comfortable. Lucy was in too good a mood to have him waste it. Glorfindel didn't say anything else, and Lucy didn't look at him again.

A few minutes later, she felt him lean against her once more, his head resting atop hers. His arm went around her shoulders as he buried his face in her hair. A shuddering breath escaped the ellon’s lungs, like the sound someone makes when they're suddenly doused in cold water. _Pityalos,_ Idril had called him teasingly, but there had been a hint of sadness behind her tone.

Glorfindel's grip was surprisingly tight, but Lucy ignored it. She let him hold her for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Shorter this time (and hopefully shorter and shorter as the chapters go by). Names first, sentences last. Standard grammar warnings apply.
> 
> Pityalos – Little Flower (Quenya epessë)
> 
> [Idril] Ná maer govadh – It is good to meet you
> 
> [Idril] Ai, Laurëfindil, ná hen gard thurin ín – Ai, Laurëfindil, is this (why) you've (been) hiding her
> 
> [Glorfindel] Anen odo a caer – I was seven and ten.
> 
> [Idril] Canad a caer idhrinn iaur. Ai, iaur a cûn di golu, anel – Four and ten years older. Yes, old and bent with wisdom, you were
> 
> [Glorfindel] Aliaew nin – Don't mock me
> 
> [Idril] Nányë i aranel. Nányë lavan iaewd. Pityalos, ui danna torn – I'm the princess. I'm allowed to mock you. Little flower, always falling down (Partial Quenya)
> 
> [Idril] Laurëfindil, gard sile sendhir lû – Laurëfindil, You've outdone/outshone yourself this time
> 
> [Glorfindel] Hen ná alceredir o Morgoth – She's not an agent of Morgoth
> 
> [Glorfindel] Hen ná min – She's mine
> 
> [Maeglin] Andh milui. Ídhad nin – You are very forward/friendly. (Did) you miss me
> 
> [Maeglin] Ai, sandh melch – Ai, you are so greedy
> 
> [Maeglin] Hen mell nin – She likes me
> 
> [Maeglin] Turgon leltanin. E iest pedo i Feanorians – Turgon sent me. He wants to speak about the Fëanorians
> 
> [Maeglin] Albain, nányë sûl. Fingon anbad ab Maedhros, ata – Nothing good, I'm sure. Fingon most (likely) went after Maedhros, again
> 
> [Idril] Boed dartha enni ar – You should have waited for me outside
> 
> [Maeglin] Gerin tírahen min vi á lû – (But) I hadn't seen this one in some time
> 
> [Idril] Nauvan dan rato. Thelm cen máca hye, ai – I will be back soon. We will see each other
> 
> [Idril] Oh, Pityalos. Uis san ogol. E û thelten – Oh, little flower. It's not so bad. He (didn't) mean it
> 
> [Glorfindel] Lîrd an nin, ab. Né bain – You sang to me, before. It was beautiful
> 
> [Glorfindel] Nar gelird sí – Are you happy here
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ald nahta ti. Hîn yára Yavanna. Hîn coitë, acca – You shouldn't pluck/hurt them. They belong to Yavanna. They are living things, too (Quenya)
> 
> [Glorfindel] Ídhad an Maeglin han olya – (Did) you care for Maeglin that much


	17. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised April 15, 2016

There was something odd going on around Glorfindel's estate. Something unsettling, and probably dangerous.

Lucy couldn't quite put her finger on what _it_ was, but she knew something was happening just beneath the surface, and that she probably wouldn't like it. It was in how the air felt different, fluctuating from being thick with static only to switch to a dull sort of _throbbing_. Then it would reverse. Sometimes, when she was standing in the hallway or lying in her bed, she would see the shadow of someone on the wall behind her, only to turn around and find the area deserted.

The whispering was more frequent now, but Lucy had learned how to drown it out with the weight of malaise, so she mostly ignored it. The voice did not like this, and often grew angry when she did. It wouldn't yell outright, but Lucy knew it wanted to. She'd discovered that it had a hard time talking to her when Glorfindel was near, so she purposely sought him out, slipping beneath his arm and attaching herself to the elf lord’s side whenever she could. The ellon loved physical affection, so he was more than receptive to this nearness.

Over the next month and a half, Lucy's lessons with Idril progressed at a steady pace. Every morning after breakfast, the two of them would sit in a small study just down the hall from Lucy's bedroom. The princess would make her recite the alphabet, then write a series of letters called _Tengwar_ , after which they would practice vocabulary. Idril was a good teacher, and she was **good** with languages. The elleth learned English unnervingly fast. She couldn't write it, but by the end of the first month she could speak it easily, and had a habit of mixing that and Sindarin together so Lucy could understand her better.

Lucy had been around the elves long enough to guess a good chunk of what was being said, so she started speaking rather quickly in return. The princess had informed her some weeks back that she was expected to learn elvish before being taken to the King. The Lords of Gondolin had decided it would be best if she could answer their newest round of questions directly. Lucy was okay with this, as she really, really liked Idril, and wanted to impress the princess. She liked her **so** much she would mimic her in subtle ways, sitting all straight-backed and dainty in her too-tall chair, or crossing her feet delicately at the ankles.

She didn't want to be the princess, per say, but Idril was the first person Lucy had met that she actually liked, and she desperately wanted to be friends with her. When she started learning Sindarin unfortunately, she became slightly unmanageable. Like a toddler discovering the power of each individual word, Lucy went through phases and favorites. For a couple weeks, everything was _no_ and _never_ and _stop, I don't want it._ She was particularly fond of the word _no_ , because Glorfindel obeyed it obsessively. He was very mindful of her feelings, and often Lucy said it just to get a rise out of him.

Glorfindel was desperate to please, but Idril was less than impressed with Lucy's childish machinations. She also had little patience for any sort of cruelty.

"Stop teasing him." she told her at the end of a week's worth of _no's_ , her expression unamused and frosty. The princess was mixing up her words again, combining her Sindarin and English effortlessly together. "Laurëfindil only wishes the best for you."

"But he makes it so **easy**." Lucy whined, first in English, then in Sindarin when Idril made her say it properly. Still, the princess was having none of it.

"It is not his fault," she said. "Pityalos cares too much. Always, he has. I will not have you hurting him. He doesn't deserve it." 

Lucy pouted, but promised to do as she bade. She liked Idril, and wanted to make the elleth proud of her. The princess seemed slightly befuddled by her attachment, but accepted it readily enough. When Lucy asked her questions about the Vanyar – which was often – she was more than willing to answer.

The Vanyar weren't in Middle-earth, Lucy learned soon enough. Most of them had stayed behind in a place called _Valinor_ , after they'd had a falling out with the Noldor. A few of them had crossed the Helcaraxë, and among the House of Fingolfin many of the elves were actually mixed. Their kind were patriarchal, not matriarchal, however, so they followed their father's line. It was why Glorfindel and Idril were considered Noldor.

Idril was a good Noldo, Lucy decided. Her favourite Noldo. She told the princess as such.

Idril laughed outright at this, nearly snorting beneath her hand in amusement. "Me?" she chimed. "A good Noldo? Now, that is a funny thing."

"Can we see Maeglin tomorrow?" Lucy asked. She hadn't seen him since the first time she'd met Idril, and while Glorfindel was more relaxed, he still kept a death grip on her daily activities. The princess didn't try to stop him. For reasons unknown, the elleth seemed to agree with the elf lord when it came to her cousin.

Sure enough Idril’s expression sobered, her lovely smile falling into a neutral frown.

"Perhaps." she hedged, which Lucy took to mean as _no_. She was well versed in no's. "You must ask Glorfindel first."

Lucy pouted and propped her head in her hands, swinging her feet beneath the table. All the chairs were too tall for her. "But he always says no." she whined. "He won't let me."

"There is a reason for that." Idril intoned. Lucy didn't believe her.

"Maeglin is my friend, too," she declared. "I want to see him."

"He locked you in a dungeon."

"He was supposed to!"

"You don't know him!" Idril insisted, sounding flustered. Lucy couldn't argue with that. She really didn't know him, truth be told, but she didn't care.

"I still want to see him," she repeated.

"You must ask Glorfindel first." Idril repeated, waving her hand in dismissal. She seemed disinclined to continue arguing over it. "Ask him in Sindarin. You need to practice."

So Lucy did.

She was allowed to wander by herself now, so long as she behaved. Although there were certain wings of the estate that were off limits, and going past the front gate was absolutely forbidden, Lucy had free reign over the main building. She took full advantage of this, walking every day and exploring where she could. She never ventured out alone after dark, due to her unease and fear of the creature. Several times Lucy had tried to tell Idril about this problem, as Morwen had become increasingly withdrawn as the weeks went by, but the princess was of little help in the matter.

"There is nothing here." she'd said with certainty. "If there was, Pityalos would have found it." And Idril was right, in a sense. During the daytime, Glorfindel's estate was warm and welcoming, but Lucy had seen the creature hanging upside down no more than a foot away from him, so she knew it wasn't scared of the Noldo. Truthfully she was beginning to wonder if the elves saw the creature at all. The only other elf she could recall who'd actually admitted to seeing it was one of Anaduilin's guards, months ago in the dungeon. Another one had gone missing. Either way, Gondolin wasn't safe. Lucy didn't actively try to escape, but in the back of her mind the nebulous plan still resided; the desire to flee, or to attempt Tommy's original plan and make her way to The Shire. She just had to be careful about it. She had to be patient. Subconsciously, Lucy began storing away useful bits of information in the hopes of one day using it.

It was the beginning of autumn that day. As Lucy meandered along the hall to Glorfindel's study, she could see all the signs to the end of a lazy summer. The air was warm and languid, but devoid of humidity, the sun sitting low in the sky. Wasps were about in great numbers, as were the bees, and slowly the leaves had started to turn, going gold and red beneath the daylight. If she were on earth it would have probably been September. Lucy didn't know how cold it would get in the mountains once winter arrived, but she did know it would be her birthday soon. She was a fall baby, born on the twenty-first of October. She'd be turning seventeen this year.

Abruptly an idea sprung to life, so surefooted in its design that Lucy didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before. If it were her birthday, she'd ask Glorfindel for a present. He hated saying no to her, and she was almost positive he wouldn't refuse. The elf lord had grown increasingly busy over the past several weeks, but Lucy had learned that despite her limited freedom, her _mobility_ increased when she was in his presence. Glorfindel was loath to deny her anything, and while his staff did not agree with this, they were deferential to him. It was clear from observing Glorfindel and how he interacted with others that he was much younger than the rest of his household, yet they still obeyed. Lucy got the sense that this was because they liked the elf lord, despite his rank. Everyone seemed to adore Glorfindel, except for Maeglin.

Aeloth was especially fond of the elf lord, and while the imperturbable elleth had little patience for his fidgeting, she did baby him a great deal. The day before last Lucy had asked Aeloth about this – with Idril's help, of course. She'd had only a passing curiosity in the relationship between the two, but Aeloth surprised her by actually answering. 

"I was his nanny," the elleth told her. When Lucy had managed to parse what Aeloth said, she'd nearly choked on a fit of giggles. The elleth had made a sniffing sound at her reaction, looking down her perfectly straight nose as she'd asked Lucy what was the problem. Once again, with Idril's help, Lucy told her.

"You don't look like a nanny," she’d said. In Lucy's mind nannies were shapeless, middle-aged women in button up sweaters, with heavy jowls and overly curled hair. Aeloth was ageless, with lily-white skin and bright grey eyes and a visage that appeared almost regal. The elleth’s response had been thick with sarcasm.

"A lady ages well." she'd implied.

Before Lucy could respond to that Idril had laughed, so hard she'd made a choking sound and nearly fallen off her chair. Her eyes had watered with mirth. The older elleth had glared murderously at her, stony faced and silent, a tea set held delicately between her milky hands. 

"A lady!" the princess had chortled. "A **lady**! Oh, you used to scream at us when we were little and misbehaving. I remember!"

"You were a brat." Aeloth deadpanned. "Thank Illúvatar you were not in my care. Laurëfindil was precious."

Lucy had been curious about the two of them when they were younger, so after Aeloth left she'd asked Idril about it in detail. The princess had grinned wickedly, her cheek smushed against her hand as she'd balanced her arm atop the table. She'd been watching Lucy copy down another sheet of the alphabet.

"Pityalos?" she'd crooned. "Oh, he was forty years older than I, so when we were young we did not play together much. I knew about him, though. All the children did. His ammë is a niece of Ingwë."

"What's ammë?"

"Mother." Idril said, using the Sindarin word. She paused for a moment, leaning forward to correct Lucy on her _æ_ , before continuing.

"Pityalos' family is very rich, you see. His atar was a lord, a friend to my grandfather. Have you heard of him? Fingolfin, I mean? No? Ah, well it does not matter. Pityalos is nothing like his atar. He looks like his ammë, though. She is beautiful, too."

"What's atar?"

"Father."

"Why do you call him Pityalos?" Lucy asked. She’d gripped her quill a bit too tightly as she shakily tried to copy down the next line of tengwar. Her writing was atrocious, her grasp on grammar so bad she was worse than illiterate. Idril had broken into another fit of giggles at the question, her smile going from ear to ear. The princess was almost always in a good mood, and her impish behavior was contagious.

" _Little flower_?" she’d said in Sindarin, automatically translating the word. "Why, that's because he was so shy! He is tall now, you see, and very strong, but back then he was small. Very delicate."

Glorfindel **was** tall, now; one of the tallest elves Lucy had yet to meet, although Turgon was a good head taller. As she approached the elf lord's study she saw one of Glorfindel’s guards standing outside the door. Slowly Lucy smiled at him, humming a mindless tune. Her yellow dress rustled softly against the floor as she trailed her hand along the nearby wall, her golden slippers tapping gently over the tiles.

As she approached the guard looked up, turning his head towards her.

"Hello." Lucy said in Sindarin. The guard did not respond, but he did tilt his head slightly in her direction as she passed. The door was already partially open. Lucy leaned forward and poked her head through the opening to see inside.

Glorfindel was seated at his desk, neck deep in disorderly paperwork and long hair pulled back in what amounted to an extremely messy ponytail. He was scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper, his brows furrowed and his expression one of frustration. The elf lord was out of his armor again, dressed in nondescript brown and looking far too casual. Glorfindel seemed to loathe paperwork unless it had to do with troop movements and little toy soldiers, and Lucy suspected this was because he had a hard time sitting still. She resisted the urge to comment on the mess.

The ellon looked up as she approached. He didn't drop his feather pen, nor did he smile, but his eyelids drooped the slightest bit as she neared, his expression appearing relaxed. Glorfindel looked better these days, and while there was a seriousness about him when he dealt with official business, he was not nearly as morose. Lucy kept on humming, one hand trailing languidly over nearby surfaces as the other fiddled with a delicate golden necklace clasped at her neck. Glorfindel had given it to her the week before. He was always giving her gifts like that.

"Lucy." he said softly, sitting straighter as he turned in his chair towards her. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, before trying again. "Is Idril well?"

Lucy could understand him easily enough, so long as he kept his sentences simple. Sindarin didn't come naturally to him, she'd learned through the princess. _Quenya_ was his first language, and he much preferred to use it. Glorfindel would often forget to speak in Sindarin unless prompted. He did it so often that Lucy could actually discern a word or two in Quenya.

"Why does Idril call you Pityalos?" she asked him on a whim, moving to stand in front of the elf lord. Lucy already knew why, but she was curious to hear what he would say. Maybe his answer would be different. Glorfindel reached for her, clasping their hands left-to-left and right-to-right, the motion automatic and without hesitation. His thumbs ran back and forth across the tops of her palms.

"What do you mean?" he said, frowning slightly in confusion. Lucy chalked this up to her clumsy, toddler-like grasp of Sindarin. "Why does Idril call you Pityalos?" she repeated, trying to remember the correct order of the words.

Glorfindel's expression was one of befuddlement.

"It is an epessë," he said at last, slow and hesitant. Lucy didn't know what he meant.

"What's an epessë?"

The elf lord struggled for the next few minutes to explain what _epessë_ was in a way she would understand, stopping and starting a few times over, the words hovering on his lips. He was not as masterful with languages as Idril was, and the skin between his brows was furrowed as he thought. Lucy extracted one of her hands and leaned forward, using her fingers to smooth out the ridges between them. Glorfindel relaxed under her ministrations, his eyelids lowering as he slumped towards her. The elf lord was always so tense, although he hid it well. Often, Lucy didn't realize how anxious he was until she touched him. As to what Glorfindel was anxious over, she couldn't say, although she suspected it had something to do with the ever-approaching war. The elf lord seemed to genuinely adore Gondolin, and took his responsibilities very seriously – besides the seemingly allergic reaction to paperwork. She knew he would hate to see it fall to Morgoth’s forces.

Lucy kept her hand on his forehead, even after she smoothed out the furrows in his brow. The elf lord liked it when she was near, and Lucy liked his warmth.

"It is a name." Glorfindel said slowly, his words slow as his eyelids drooped further. "The name… the name that others give you." The elf lord was having a hard time stringing his sentences together, like he was slightly drugged. Even his eyes looked strange, the pupils over-dilated and the blue of his irises dark. Lucy figured it was an elf-thing. She reached down further, rubbing a smudge of ink off his cheek with the flat of her palm. Left to his own devices Glorfindel was rather messy, at least for an elf. Lucy suspected his immaculate appearance – when he actually chose to make the effort – was due to Aeloth needling him. She seemed the type.

"Is Glorfindel an epessë?" she asked, when the silence dragged on. The elf lord shook his head, and when Lucy reached up to start fiddling with a stray lock of his hair, he closed his eyes completely. Glorfindel had beautiful hair. The most beautiful she'd ever seen. Lucy liked touching it, so she did. It was a comforting motion.

"No." he said slowly, eyes still closed. "It is my Sindarin name."

Lucy stayed silent for a moment more, thinking back on what others had called him.

"Is Laurëfindil your real name?"

Glorfindel reopened his eyes, blushing bright, and nodded. The elf lord was so fair that even the slightest hint of color to his cheeks was stark. "It is my mother name." he said, then added "Orë… orë iallaldë ni Laurëfindil."

He was speaking Quenya again, falling into it effortlessly and slightly breathless with excitement. Lucy didn't know what _mother name_ was, and she certainly didn't understand Quenya, but she wasn't curious enough to ask him about it either way.

"Why does Idril call you Pityalos?" she insisted.

Glorfindel shrugged and looked up at her, obviously confused and utterly submissive beneath her touch. Lucy freed her other hand, then moved both of them against his cheeks, the tips of her fingers resting just below his eye sockets. He didn't move, staring up at her with a muted sort of adoration. She could carve out his eyeballs, Lucy thought; she could dig out the orbits, blood beneath her fingernails, tendons tugging at the back, and he wouldn't move a muscle. She wouldn't hurt him, though. His eyes were very pretty, and she liked them inside his head. 

"It is an epessë?" he offered hesitantly, in response to her repeated question. The conversation was obviously going nowhere, so Lucy decided to drop it.

"Can I call you Rapunzel?" she asked. She meant it as a joke, of course, but Glorfindel's eyes widened with disbelief.

"You wish to give me an epessë?" he said.

"Can I?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel nodded vigorously beneath her hands, putting his own atop hers and trapping them to his face. His cheeks were warm beneath her palms; his blush so deep a bit of it was creeping across the bridge of his nose. The redness made him seem a bit more human, although the too-sharp ears and alien tilt to his features sort of ruined the effect. Lucy missed being around other humans. Morwen was always so distant with her, and had been for months.

"You can call me anything." Glorfindel said. He looked sublimely happy, his voice full of a quiet sort of joy. "You did not give me an epessë before. I am glad."

Lucy was bored with talking about names, but she had come there with a purpose, and she hadn't forgotten her plan. Casually she leaned closer, crowding the elf lord's personal space. He didn't lean away.

"It's my _birthday_ soon," she said, using the English word. Glorfindel looked up, dazed and uncomprehending. He really did seem out of it.

" _Birthday_?" he repeated. He sounded strange speaking English, his accent very thick. Nothing like her dream from so long ago, when he had spoken it perfectly.

"The day I was born." Lucy clarified. She didn't know the Sindarin word for _birthday_ , or if they even had one, but Glorfindel's expression lit up with comprehension. He smiled slowly. Lucy could feel the muscles in his face moving beneath her hands. 

"Begetting day." he corrected. Then, with realization "It is your begetting day? Now?"

Lucy shook her head, dropping her hands away from his face. Once more he reached for her, re-locking their fingers together. Lucy let him, childishly swinging their arms back and forth.

"Soon." she corrected clumsily. "I will be seventeen."

Glorfindel's smile widened further, but it was a gentle sort of thing.

"Seventeen." he repeated softly, mulling over the word and eventually nodding his head. His posture became slouched and he looked down towards his feet. "Seventeen. Good. I am… I am glad."

Lucy _hmmed_ happily, leaning in even closer. "May I have a gift?" she asked. He looked up again, golden and guileless.

"A gift?"

"For my begetting day."

Glorfindel nodded easily. "Of course." he said.

"I want to go to The Shire."

Slowly Glorfindel's smile began to wilt into a frown. The elf lord pulled her forward until she was nearly standing between his legs. Lucy let him, remaining apathetic throughout. His hands left hers to grip her forearms, his slender fingers worrying at the fabric. There was a note of uncertainty to his gaze, and Lucy knew that he was anxious. Glorfindel got especially clingy when he was nervous.

"The Shire?" he said. He obviously didn't know where or what it was. Lucy tried again.

"I want to leave Gondolin." 

Immediately his good mood vanished. Glorfindel's expression was a muted combination of fear and childlike confusion, his hands clenching hard around her arms. He shook his head and bit his bottom lip, never once looking away from her, never blinking; almost as if he was afraid she would disappear. 

"You cannot leave," he said quickly. There was a slight wobble to his voice. "You have to stay."

"I only want to visit." Lucy tried again. "I will come back –" but already he was shaking his head, violently this time, his words rapid with terror. "No." he said. "No, no, **no** , it is not safe outside Gondolin. There are orcs in the mountains, I will not, you will not – not again –" 

He was getting upset, and would have a hard time breathing soon. Lucy could see it in the way he spoke far too fast, how his fingers clamped down even further and the temperature of his skin dropped. There were few things that made Glorfindel panic, but for whatever reason the thought of her leaving was practically taboo. **Nobody** could mention it, but Lucy had stumbled into the forbidden area without meaning to. She didn't have a big enough vocabulary to tell him he was wrong in his assumption.

Before he became too distraught – and any chance she had of getting any concessions out of him were lost – Lucy leaned forward, extracting her arms with difficulty so she could wrap them around his neck. Glorfindel liked hugs, and he always calmed down when she gave him one. Automatically the elf lord returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her middle and burying his face in her hair. His fingers tangled themselves in the folds of her dress, clenching at the yellow fabric. Lucy could feel the tightening of his muscles along his upper back.

"Can I have another gift?" she murmured against his ear. Glorfindel shuddered, but didn't raise his head.

"Yes." he mumbled. "But not that."

"Can I visit Maeglin? Tomorrow?"

Lucy couldn't see his face from where she was leaning, but she could feel his forehead resting against her shoulder. Glorfindel was silent for a moment, his arms drawing her inexorably forward. Then –

"Maybe." he said churlishly. She was almost at her goal.

Lucy turned her head to the side, pressing a casual kiss to his cheek. Glorfindel pulled her closer. "Can I visit Maeglin?" she repeated. "Please?"

Slowly, Glorfindel nodded in acquiescence. Lucy smiled into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to post. As always, a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed/bookmarked/left kudos. I love hearing from you. Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Wonderfully short. All Quenya.
> 
> Orë… orë iallaldë ni Laurefindil – I want… I want you to call me Laurëfindil


	18. Wisps and Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised April 16, 2016

Glorfindel was helpless. At least, when it came to her.

Lucy learned this soon after the elf lord's breakdown, and to her unscrupulous delight she discovered the second she gave him her big doll eyes and tugged on his sleeve, Glorfindel would turn into a proverbial puddle of elvish goo before her.

She was spoiled. Ridiculously, outrageously spoiled, and the elf lord had a seemingly endless amount of cash to spend, which only made the situation worse. Lucy wasn't allowed to leave the estate, but when he finished his duties Glorfindel spent every free moment he had in her presence. Lucy discovered through Idril that the ellon had no wife and no children to speak of, nor any siblings, and his father was dead. The closest living relative he had on Middle-earth was actually the princess herself; he was distantly related through their mothers' side, but the familial connection was so tenuous that it was considered almost negligible. In elvish years, five hundred was young, but not terribly so; the fact that Glorfindel lived alone was viewed as _strange_ by the other Noldor, especially considering his temperament.

The elf lord was lonely. Blatantly, unequivocally lonely, and combined with an overly trusting nature it made him susceptible to even the most casual show of affection. 

As Aeloth helped her dress for the day, Lucy couldn't help but think that it was good that Glorfindel was lonely. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't have agreed to her outing with Maeglin.

"Sit still." Aeloth demurred as she helped Lucy dress, muttering something in incomprehensible Sindarin as she laced up the back of her gown. Lucy didn't, leaning forward to grab something off her dresser top and palm it between her hands. It was a box, pale and covered in crushed pearl enamel. When Lucy opened it, it began to sing. _A music box_. She was thrilled.

Inside the box there was a single necklace. A brassy one, slightly tarnished, with a strange looking pendant on the end. Lucy wanted to wear it. When she took it out, discarding the box, Aeloth sighed and tugged her back.

"Lucy." she warned.

"No." Lucy said. She could say _no_ perfectly now, and was anxious to leave. She didn't understand why she had to dress so fancy. "I want to go."

"You must get dressed." Aeloth chided, finishing up the laces on the back of her dress. When Lucy tried to put on the necklace, Aeloth took it away from her and put it back in the box.

"No." she repeated. "It does not match."

"I don't care."

"You must dress properly."

"I **am** dressed." Lucy corrected peevishly. She was, after all, and even if she hadn't been she would have been perfectly content to wear her nightgown and wander about in that. Not that Aeloth would have let her, of course. The Noldor seemed to take inordinate pride in their appearance, and were constantly trying to outdo one another. Lucy’s own appearance was viewed somewhat collectively: as an extension of the House of the Golden Flower, with her as a trophy.

After Aeloth finishing dressing her in gown and shoes, Lucy all but bolted for the door. She was excited for her first outing into the city to the point of being giddy. Aeloth trailed behind her at a more mature pace, a bluish piece of fabric draped over one arm. As far as Lucy understood it, the elleth was supervising her for the day. Morwen wasn't with them, as she had been bedridden since the previous morning. The older woman had become increasingly withdrawn over the past several weeks, the proverbial grayness that surrounded her like a cloud thickening to the point where it obscured even her appearance. Morwen was quiet around the elves, and whenever she was asked a question she was curt and peevish. Lucy didn't care much for this behaviour, but when she'd questioned the change the woman had told her that she was depressed and missed her family. She’d never been away from home for so long, and was deathly afraid for her youngest son.

Lucy understood this feeling to an extent – it was probably hard, to be separated from the children you loved – so she'd let the subject drop. As they arrived on the second level of the tower, Lucy heard voices. Leaning forward, she peered over the marble railing to see who was standing by the door. Glorfindel and several of his guards were waiting at the bottom. The elf lord was talking quietly to Aearmarth, whom had a sheaf of paper folded between his hands. Even from a distance, Lucy could tell the smaller ellon was frowning, his expression terse with concern.

Humming happily, Lucy quickly descended down the rest of the steps and made her way over to Glorfindel. She lacked almost any sense of propriety, so when she arrived she boldly reached out, squirming beneath his arm. Lucy clutched at his tunic, leaning against him as she looked up. Glorfindel lifted his arm to accommodate her, but once she was settled he let it fall, his hand absently gripping the back of her neck over the thick mass of her hair. He didn't turn to look at her.

The elf lord was not in a good mood that day, but neither did he seem to be in a **bad** one. If anything, Lucy would have said he was distracted. Aearmarth didn't look at Lucy either, although he did frown, his delicate features sharpening into something severe as his hands worried at the paper. It was stamped with a red wax seal that had been recently broken.

"I do not think this is wise," he was saying. Even though everyone already knew she was learning Sindarin, Lucy pretended she was slow and didn't understand. Still, she could tell from the way that Glorfindel tensed that he didn't want to talk about this whatever _this_ was, at least around her.

"There have been sightings –" Aearmarth continued.

"We will be fine." Glorfindel insisted, cutting the other ellon off a bit too abruptly. "This is Gondolin."

"Gondolin is just a city." Aearmarth countered, gripping the paper even tighter. He looked nervous. "Cities fall. Mistakes are made."

Glorfindel's expression twisted into something uncomfortable, and Lucy felt his hand tightening against the back of her neck. She leaned her head against his chest, pressing the side of her face to his tunic. Through it, she could hear the too-fast beating of his heart.

"I do not wish to discuss this." Glorfindel insisted, looking everywhere but Aearmarth. He was starting to fidget again, the fingers on his free hand twitching rapidly. 

"You should discuss it. Postpone the outing. You need to speak with the King."

"Maeglin… Maeglin is difficult to contact." he demurred, then "Humin mernna demrya."

"You outrank him. Postpone it."

" **Faren**. I said I do not wish to talk about it."

Aearmarth drew in a sharp breath through his nose, his lips pinching and hands clenching as if he were trying to calm himself. Glorfindel still wouldn't look at him, staring guiltily off to the side. As he did so Aeloth walked up to them, placing a hand upon Aearmarth's arm before gliding past him and towards the door.

"Patience, brother." she said, without any tonal inflection. "You worry too much." It was like talking to a robot.

When the elleth reached the doors, a guard opened them for her. "Come, Lucy. We will wait at the gates," she said. Without hesitation Lucy fled from Glorfindel's grasp to follow Aeloth. She had little preference for whoever took her on the outing, so long as she actually got to go outside. Moments later, Glorfindel followed. As the elf lord trailed down the steps behind them, the seneschal quickly turned his head and strode off towards the stairs. Aearmarth and he did not exchange another word.

Outside the weather was lovely: warm, but not too warm, lacking in humidity as the sun shone bright overhead. As Lucy neared the gate where Aeloth was standing, the elleth unfolded the piece of fabric that had been draped across her arm. It was a periwinkle coloured cloak with a silk-lined hood. She opened it, beckoning Lucy over to her.

"Put it on." she said. Lucy pouted and began to drag her feet. 

"I don't want to."

"Put it on. You will get cold."

It wasn't cold out, but Lucy **did** get cold easily. She wasn't going to admit that, though. "No." She declared. She tried to walk past the elleth while remaining out of reach, but was unsuccessful.

"Put it on." Glorfindel insisted as he walked around her, deftly grabbing the cloak from Aeloth's fingers before returning to drape it across Lucy's shoulders. She pouted as he locked the clasp around her throat, but stayed still. The elf lord's eyes were distant, and he seemed detached. 

"I will not get cold," she told him. She wasn't trying to be contrary, really; she just knew he would worry, and she didn't want him to. He was already too stressed.

"You will." he said, sounding slightly melancholic. His mind was elsewhere, his movements mechanical. "You are Edain." Glorfindel paused, and frowned slightly at that. "Edain… Edain are not as strong. You were always prone to the chill."

"Are you alright?" Lucy asked. She didn't like it when he was upset, because it made her upset.

Glorfindel smiled tersely at her, but the smile was false. "I am well."

"Is it Sauron and the war?" She couldn't think of what else it would be. Whenever she listened in on their conversations, it was all the elves seemed to talk about. Immediately Glorfindel's expression turned into a fierce glower, his hands clenching tightly in the fabric of her hood as he drew it over her head.

"You should not speak so freely of Morgoth's Lieutenant." he said sharply, and Lucy was slightly shocked at how angry he sounded. "Maiar come when called. You will bring him down on us."

"Will the King throw me back in the dungeon if I do?"

" **Yes**." he seethed, and turned around, walking quickly towards the gate. Aeloth followed, along with two guards. Lucy had to run to keep up with them. 

The part of the city that Glorfindel lived in was the third ring from the top. The entire area was quieter than the rest of Gondolin, as it was filled with upper class estates and a smattering of middle class dwellings, each of them walled-off and secluded. They were heading to one level above that, halfway along the main road before taking a set of stairs. Although it did not personally appeal to her tastes, Gondolin was a beautiful city, and outside the confines of Glorfindel's tower and the dankness of the dungeon, Lucy was free to observe it. The streets were narrow, the buildings slender and tall. Flowers grew beneath every window, while ferns and vines were thick in the shadows. There was a controlled kind of beauty about the metropolis, an exacting sort of craftsmanship that reminded Lucy less of Mirkwood and more of a dwarven expanse like Erebor. She found it odd.

"What are Sindar cities like?" she asked. Glorfindel had been so dazed that he nearly tripped at her question. Beside them Aeloth's expression curdled like milk.

"Pardon?" Glorfindel coughed, one hand against his chest as he tried to clear his throat.

"What are Sindar cities like?" Lucy repeated. The highly structured manner of Gondolin **did** seem weird to her. Lucy had always thought elves would be… well, less orderly. More pixie-like and attuned to nature, perhaps. Noldor were almost obsessively architectural.

Glorfindel's expression was wary as he spoke. "Why?"

"Are Sindar cities like Noldor cities? Do they look like Gondolin?"

The elf lord's expression became sad, almost, and he looked away. Lucy followed him as he led their party up a smaller walkway. "No. They are more…" he waved his hands absently as if trying to find the proper words. "More… amba aldar. Amba coi."

"Laurëfindil." Aeloth chided from behind them. "Speak in Sindarin, dear."

"There are more trees," he corrected clumsily, still frowning as he stared out at nothing. "It is different."

“Do you like trees?” Lucy asked. He nodded mutely, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“Yes. It is… it is _life_.”

"Can we go to a Sindar city?"

"No. It is not safe." Then, sounding slightly distracted "I must… I must stop somewhere." Abruptly Glorfindel turned down another path, smaller than the others but well attended. Lucy had to run in order to keep up. 

That "somewhere" turned out to be an orphanage. Lucy hadn't realized that Gondolin even had one, although she vaguely remembered the King mentioning something about it some time before. In truth she'd thought the city wouldn't need it. Lucy knew that elves died on occasion, but Noldor seemed so fanatical about raising children that she'd automatically assumed that any unattended child would instantly be cared for.

The orphanage was small and tucked away from the main road: slightly lonely looking, but bright and covered in creeping vines and small blue flowers. There were only a few children about – again, this convinced Lucy even more that _elflings_ were quickly adopted – but those she did see were young. Very young. There were a cluster of about half a dozen of them playing beneath a pale leafed tree, all tiny and dark haired and bright-eyed. Watching over them was a somewhat short, sandy-haired elleth who seemed to be their nanny. She looked up as the party approached.

"My lord." she said to Glorfindel. She had a nice, even voice. A dark-haired girl who looked to be about five clung to the elleth's skirts, sucking on the edge of her sleeve. Even though her coloring seemed non-descript, the elfling didn't strike Lucy as Noldo. Her face was _different_ , especially the shape of the eyes. Glorfindel smiled back warmly, quickly manoeuvring past the front gate and into the yard. Lucy hung behind, suddenly unsure and feeling unwanted. This wasn't her place, she decided, although she couldn't explain why. Perhaps she was being paranoid.

"Why aren't they adopted?" she asked Aeloth, who was standing beside her. Aeloth turned and made a _hmming_ sound in question, raising an eyebrow. Lucy tried again, struggling with her words. The second time she repeated her question, the elleth understood. She shrugged nonchalantly, and seemed to mull over her answer before she spoke.

"They are not from noble families." she said, then stopped, simplifying her sentences further. "They are not full Noldor, the children. Sindar mix, mostly. Some Silvan." The little girl's un-Noldo-like face suddenly made sense. Still Lucy didn't understand Aeloth's meaning, as most of Glorfindel's staff were mixed. **He** was mixed. So was the princess. Lucy told her as such.

The imperturbable elleth frowned slightly, her brow scrunching in thought. It was the only indication she gave as to her current temperament.

"Laurëfindil is a Vanyar mix," she agreed eventually. "There are many with Vanyar blood in this city. Sindar are different. Good soldiers, yes, but… lesser. They never saw the trees. The other mixes are better."

The _ugliness_ of Aeloth's sentiment hit home in a rush of understanding, then; so sudden and violent that Lucy actually felt sick. Always, she'd been disquieted by Glorfindel's overtly elvish features, but it wasn't because of an innate sense of superiority, or anything like that. Lucy had been surrounded by nothing but elves for half a year, and the cultural divide between her species and his was so strong she was desperate for human company. She was homesick, not racist.

"That's ugly," she said in English, without thinking it through. She actually felt angry. Lucy was uncomfortable around children, but she didn’t _hate_ them, and there were little ticks and triggers about Noldorin society that were beginning to get to her. What if their ugliness was contagious? Suddenly, she felt the urge to scratch at her skin and clean herself of the rot.

Aeloth smiled benignly and went back to watching Glorfindel. As she did there was a childish shout of surprise. Lucy turned towards the tree in front of the orphanage to see a dark-haired elfling running out to meet them. The child was small, and very thin; pale-skinned and dark-eyed, like Maeglin, but more Noldo-looking than the other children. He wore a solemn expression as he made an A-line straight for Glorfindel.

Glorfindel smiled and crouched low, holding his arms open. His expression was akin to watching the slowly unfurling rays of the sun. "'Findel." the child lisped, unsteady on his feet as he reached for the elf lord. He was dressed all in black. "'Findel, you late."

Glorfindel quickly picked him up, grasping the elfling beneath the armpits and sweeping him into an affectionate hug. He planted a quick kiss to the side of the child's head, standing with him seated atop his arm, his small body resting against the ellon’s chest.

"I am sorry, little one," he murmured apologetically, stroking his back. "I have been busy."

"I want to go home," the child declared, wrapping his arms around the elf lord's neck and resting his head atop the golden spill of Glorfindel's hair. He was so tiny. Lucy was sure he couldn't have been more than two. 

The elf lord's expression became almost contemplative as he gently adjusted the child in his arms. "I know." he repeated. "I know, I am sorry." He was good with children, it seemed. Calm and understanding, although there was a glazed quality to his eyes that made Lucy think he was distracted. Glorfindel leaned forward to say something to the child, too soft for her to hear. The elfling shook his head and buried his face against the elf lord’s shoulder, clutching at his tunic with his hands.

Aeloth leaned to the side so she could whisper to Lucy with ease. She placed a delicate hand atop her shoulder as she nodded in the child's direction.

"That is Erestor," she murmured. Lucy felt a twinge of recognition at the name, but for the life of her she didn't know from where. Maybe Tommy had mentioned it; for a moment, she wished for the books.

The child looked up when Aeloth said his name, his little ears twitching as he clenched his hands in Glorfindel's shirt and stared with pitch black eyes over the ellon’s shoulder. Lucy returned his gaze, and soon the elfling’s stare turned into a glower. Lucy glared back. Erestor re-hid his face against Glorfindel's shoulder, refusing to look up. All Lucy could see was a tuft of silky black hair peeking out over the broad expanse of the elf lord's back. Glorfindel turned to look in Lucy's direction. Gently, he held out his hand, beckoning her forward. His expression was calm but hopeful.

"Lucy, come." he said. Erestor remained where he was.

Lucy didn't come – not until Aeloth gave her slight shove, pushing her forward. _We're supposed to see Maeglin_ , she thought, but didn't say it. Children made her nervous; she wasn’t the most delicate of people, despite her fragile appearance, and Lucy was afraid she’d hurt them. When she approached Erestor turned his head in the opposite direction, a clear refusal. Glorfindel dropped his hand to adjust his grip on the child, sitting him higher on his arm.

"Erestor, look." Glorfindel said softly, full of gentle encouragement. The toddler didn't.

"No." the elfling mumbled, curling up further. Glorfindel put a hand to his tiny head, smoothing down his hair. Lucy hung back awkwardly, skittishly eyeing the two. She didn't want to interact with the child. She didn't even want to **be** there. She didn’t know what to do.

"You do not want to say hello to Lucy?" Glorfindel asked the elfling. Erestor shook his head and refused to look up. The elf lord readjusted him, using his hand to rub soothing circles across the toddler's back. The glance he sent in Lucy's direction was apologetic.

"I am sorry," he said. He sounded like he meant it. "He is shy. I thought he would like a friend."

Lucy thought she would make a terrible friend, and was pretty sure the only person the child wanted was Glorfindel, but didn't say so. "Can we see Maeglin now?" she asked instead. Glorfindel's smile was strained as he looked at her, his hand stilling against the child's back.

"Soon." he promised. "I must talk to Erestor for awhile."

Lucy took this as her cue to leave, so she did, wandering outside the yard for a bit and out onto the street. She was accompanied by a single guard, who said nothing to her.

For the next fifteen minutes, Lucy paced in aimless circles outside the orphanage, shielding her eyes from the early autumn sun and kicking fallen leaves across the street. Glorfindel had his hands full with the child, and as such he didn't try to stop her. As soon as she left he sat on a nearby bench in order to speak to the elfling, placing him atop his knee. It was obvious the child was upset, and their conversation wasn't a happy one. Glorfindel handled it with the temperament of a saint, understanding and full of patience.

Lucy watched as Erestor shook his head, his features scrunching up and eyes reddening as he began to cry. Glorfindel placed a hand atop the toddler's crown as if to calm him, gazing down at the child with utter benevolence. Never once did his patience waver. Lucy felt an uncomfortable twinge beneath her breastbone as she watched the two; her chest tightened, and her eyes stung. Eventually the elf lord finished talking, giving the toddler another quick kiss to the side of his head before he picked him up and handed him back to his nanny. When he re-joined Lucy in the cobblestone street, he was noticeably subdued, but smiling anyways. Lucy couldn't stand it. She was asking him questions before she could stop herself. 

"Why don't you adopt him?" she said. Glorfindel obviously cared about the child, and Lucy was pretty sure they were there because he’d been neglecting Erestor for her sake. She felt guilty about the situation.

The elf lord blinked in confusion, a frown crossing his features. Lucy repeated the question. Glorfindel's expression changed from bewilderment to one of distant sadness.

"Lavuin." he admitted in Quenya, then stopped, frowned deeper, and tried again. "I am not allowed."

"Why?" Lucy pressed. She was all but positive the elf lord didn't look down on others, like the rest of the Noldor. He was taking care of **her** , after all, and she was human. Glorfindel seemed to struggle to find the words.

"Some of his family still lives." he said. "Elsewhere. Not here."

"Where?"

The elf lord's expression darkened. "In Doriath. Noldor, Noldor are not –" he paused, then tried again, his hands fluttering in front of him in a nervous gesture as he tried to explain himself in a way that she would understand. "It is too dangerous to travel now. No one leaves Gondolin." He still looked sad, but in a distant sort of way. Lucy tilted her head in observation, remembering how patient and understanding he'd been with the child. He would make a good father, she thought. He definitely seemed the parental type.

Suddenly, she came to a realization. 

"You want children," she said. Her own wardship and his fixation with Erestor finally made sense. Lucy didn't even care if she was being extremely forward.

"Children?" Glorfindel queried, as if he didn't understand what she was saying. She repeated her words. The elf lord still looked befuddled. Lucy wondered if it was a cultural thing.

"Of course I want children." Glorfindel said at last, obviously struggling to find her point. "They are a **gift**." Lucy decided it was definitely an elf-thing. He had that look in his eyes again.

"Why don't you have them now?" she asked.

"My wi – I am, I am not married," he said, as if the reason were obvious. His words were strangled-sounding, somehow; as if he was deeply uncomfortable with saying them. Glorfindel’s expression was faintly distressed. Lucy didn't say what she was really thinking; that the ellon wouldn't have children because he'd be killed before it could happen. Balrogs were in his future. For some reason this knowledge made her sad, now. Just a bit. He was too kind to be killed so horribly.

"You should have children anyways." Lucy encouraged, and resisted the urge to add _before you die_ to the end of it. Glorfindel's brow scrunched up a bit, and the painful expression flitting across his features grew deeper. It was brief, because he was trying to hide it, but Lucy could tell the suggestion did not sit well with him. The entire topic was making him extremely uncomfortable.

"I do not… it is not… I am… Noldor do not marry during times of war." he settled on, almost slipping back into Quenya. There was the trace of a blush spreading across his cheeks, and his eyes were dark. 

"Then marry someone **after**." Lucy countered. She didn’t understand what the problem was. She did, in a general sense – he wasn't going to live that long – but Glorfindel didn't know that. The elf lord's expression was odd as he looked down at her. Lucy thought there was the faintest hint of resignation there, and maybe despair, but she couldn't really read him.

"It will be too late." he said, and wouldn't elaborate. Lucy didn't press the issue. She didn't have the patience for it.

Just before they left the nanny came rushing back out, clutching her skirt in one hand and holding up the other to grab their attention. "My Lord." she said apologetically. "A word?" Glorfindel immediately acquiesced. He gave Lucy a quick, apologetic glance, then turned towards the elleth, stepping forward to meet her. Aeloth waited off to the side.

For a moment there was no focus on Lucy. None at all. She waited for Glorfindel to come back, but the conversation dragged on longer than it should have, and soon her eyes began to wander. The tightness in her chest had escalated, and Lucy rubbed at it, disquieted by how familiar the discomfort felt. As her gaze wandered, her feet did, too. Lucy stepped away from her guards, casually strolling a little farther down the winding city street. There was a slightly muffled _crash_ from a nearby alley, and she turned just in time to see a flowerpot tip over, an ellon emerging from what she assumed was a doorway a second later.

All Lucy could see of him was his silhouette, tall and slender but seemingly made of shadow. The alleyway he was standing in seemed to be unusually dark as well. The ellon wasn't doing anything suspicious. Lucy didn't even think he was looking in her direction. She stared at him for a time, unblinking, the sounds of the city fading away. From somewhere behind her, Aeloth call out.

"Lucy, come here." she said, but she sounded like she was in a fog. Glorfindel was still talking with the nanny, a little farther away. As Aeloth said Lucy’s name, the stranger looked up. He was standing so deeply in shadow his face was nothing but a pit of blackness. The stranger braced his arm against the wall, shifting his weight upon one foot. Lucy didn't feel afraid of him. Apprehensive, maybe, and definitely curious, but not fearful. She couldn't discern the details of his face no matter how hard she stared. It was like there was a film over her vision, obscuring the light.

Insatiably curious, Lucy scrunched up her brow and tried to focus on him, unconsciously taking a step in his direction. As she did so he tilted his head but said nothing. The darkness grew even deeper.

"Lucy, come here." Aeloth repeated. Lucy ignored her and took another step.

There was a buzzing in the air. A deep, dense _ringing_ that was akin to an electric current. It was a discordant sound for an elven city, and too technological. Lucy didn't know if it **was** from some sort of technology, but it was the only thing she could think to compare it to. As she stepped closer to the ellon, it got louder. Was he even an elf? She still couldn't see his features clearly, and Lucy couldn't tell if his ears were pointed. As she approached, the stranger moved, his motions serpentine. He seemed unnaturally tall. There was the tilt of his head as he observed her, the shifting of his feet against the ground. His free hand twitched by his side, fingers convulsing as if they wished to clench around something that wasn't there.

Lucy felt a tingling sensation against her ears, like the caress of a whisper. Was someone trying to speak to her?

"Lucy!" someone said.

Absently Lucy reached up to rub at her chest. With her other hand, she reached for the stranger. She didn't know why she did it. It felt more like a compulsion than anything else, but she couldn't see his face and she wanted to. As she reached for him the stranger reached back; his wispy hand made of smoke and shadow, and almost entirely ethereal. Their fingers touched as he beckoned her forward. Her fingers went **through** his, and Lucy felt heat, searing and sudden.

_Smoke_ , she thought absently. _He's made of smoke._ The dense pressure across her chest and the ringing in her ears was almost deafening.

_Lucy,_ a voice crooned. It sounded like it was coming from directly in front of her.

"Lucy!" 

There was a hand on her arm, firm and insistent. Slender fingers gripped her sleeve and quickly turned her around. Lucy found herself staring up at a visibly perplexed Glorfindel. As he grabbed her the stranger disappeared, crumbling into dust. The moment he did so Lucy jolted back into consciousness, blinking rapidly as she tried to orient herself. There was nothing but the sensation of hot, heavy air left in the stranger's wake. It was like rising from a fog; like her ears had been plugged with cotton and her senses suddenly freed. Sluggishly Lucy looked towards Glorfindel, swaying slightly where she stood. He was glaring towards the alleyway. Behind them Aeloth was waiting anxiously. Farther back just behind the gates of the orphanage, Lucy could see several children peering outwards.

"Who were you speaking to?" Glorfindel asked, sounding unsure. If she'd been more cognizant, Lucy would have recognized the insecurity in his voice. He got somewhat possessive when she talked to others, and as she stood there the elf lord's expression darkened. He reached down and gripped her hand.

_I was talking?_ she thought. Lucy looked down at their joined hands, and noticed that the tips of her fingers were black. Not burnt, but dyed dark, like soot had been rubbed into her skin. Her fingers were birdlike next to his, the appendages painfully thin. Glorfindel gripped her carefully, using his thumb to try and rub the blackness off. It didn't relent, sticking to her skin like tar.

"Does it hurt?" he asked tightly. There was an edge of panic to his tone. Lucy shook her head.

"No."

"Are you well?" he demanded, with more urgency.

"Yes."

"You are **sure**?" Glorfindel's grip tightened, and the way he was looking at her was far too severe. His eyes were so bright they were glowing. Lucy had seen him like this once before; when she'd been brought to his estate, the day after she'd thrown a fit and chucked the doll at him. He was angry, though probably not with her.

Surreptitiously she tried to free her hand from his grasp, stepping backwards. He wouldn't let her.

"Lucy –" he began.

"Let go." she said, squirming beneath his grasp. Her nose was warm and itchy, and she just wanted to be left alone. "M'fine."

" **Lucy**." he insisted. A moment later, his other hand was on her face, and Lucy flinched at the sudden contact. He ran his thumb across the skin beneath her nose. When he drew back his fingers were red with blood. Abruptly, the itching made sense. Aeloth quickly strode towards them, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket.

"Oh." said Lucy absently, staring at the blood. She reached up to wipe at her nose, and when she withdrew her hand was dappled red too. The elleth stepped in, reaching over Glorfindel's arm to hold the cloth to Lucy's face. 

"Here." she said. "Use this."

Lucy took it from her, holding it to her nose as she sniffled "'danks." Even as she put the cloth to her face, Glorfindel was putting his hand against her forehead to feel her temperature, then reaching down to rest his fingers against her neck and test her pulse. Normally the elf lord was very warm compared to her, but now he felt cold. Or maybe it was that she was too hot. Lucy was torn between leaning into his touch and recoiling. His expression was a mixture of frustration and alarm.

"You are warm," he said. His tone was oddly flat. Lucy grimaced and sniffed, swatting away his hands with her free one. She swayed slightly as she did so. For some reason, the world felt sort of fuzzy.

"M'fine." she insisted. "It's just a nose bleed. I want to see Maeglin."

It was the wrong thing to say. It was rare that Glorfindel ever got angry, but a combination of fear and hearing Maeglin's name seemed to heighten the effect. Like the time before his skin paled, pupils shrinking as his jaw set in a harsh line.

"You are not well."

"I am." Lucy insisted, although she didn't really feel it. She was dizzy, and her nose was bleeding. The black on her fingertips was still there. The stranger had disappeared into thin air, but Lucy didn't want to talk about him. It was her first time walking around the city, and she didn't want it ruined – and she knew it **would** be, if she admitted to seeing anything, especially a walking shadow. Glorfindel looked unconvinced, and the way he was reaching down to grip her hand made her think he was going to drag her back, regardless of the circumstances. Over by the gate, the nanny was ushering the children back inside.

"Please." Lucy insisted, deciding to bite the bullet. She leaned into him, giving the elf lord as heartfelt an expression as she could manage beneath the handkerchief. He always responded better when she was affectionate, and sure enough Glorfindel's expression softened, his hand automatically going to the back of her neck as if to support her head. She could feel his fingers curling absently at her nape, the long digits sliding between the strands of her hair. "It will stop soon," she said through the cloth. "I promise."

Glorfindel still looked like he was about to refuse. A flash of discomfort crossed his features: one that always foretold him denying her something. He didn't like upsetting her, or saying _no_.

"Maybe tomorrow –" he began gently. Lucy cut him off.

"Please." she said. "Not long. We can go back soon. I'll behave, I promise." 

"Let her wander for a bit." Aeloth interjected, then added something unintelligible in Quenya.

"But –" Glorfindel said, sounding lost. He pulled Lucy closer in what seemed to be an instinctual movement. She could tell how anxious he was by the tightness in his muscles along his forearms. 

"It is just a little blood." Aeloth assured the elf lord. For a moment Lucy was so grateful that she wanted to kiss her. "It happens sometimes, with young ones. If she feels ill later, you can still take her back."

"Anes carfa an mîn." Glorfindel said with a frown on his face, petulant and full of blatant worry. The Sindarin was too complicated for Lucy to pick it up, but it made no difference. Aeloth responded in Quenya.

"O iôr se pahta hyanna." she chided. "Se ala á sundocarmë."

"Uin pahtarya ettelëanna." Glorfindel insisted.

As Aeloth tried to calm the elf lord down, Lucy turned her head towards the alleyway. There was no one standing there now, but on the ground there was a pile of ash; black, insidious and unattended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY 
> 
> Humin mernna demrya – I do not wish to sadden her
> 
> Amba aldar. Amba coi – More trees. More life
> 
> Lavuin – I am not allowed
> 
> Anes carfa an mîn – She was talking to someone (Partial Quenya)
> 
> O iôr se pahta hyanna. Se ala á sundocarmë – Of course she talks to others. She's not a statue
> 
> Uin pahtarya ettelëanna – I do not want her talking to strangers


	19. Deep Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised April 17, 2016

Maeglin had the propensity to bristle like a cat when you invaded his personal space, and it didn't matter if you gave him advanced warning. Lucy learned this the hard way, and upon arrival it became apparent that the elf lord loathed it when others stepped into what he considered his individual sphere of influence.

Maeglin’s estate was not what she'd been expecting, although Lucy hadn't really had a clear picture in her mind to begin with. Even though the complex looked small on the outside, the minute they stepped through the front doors it became clear they were in just one part of an enclosed warren of rooms that burrowed down into the bedrock of the city. Maeglin seemed to have a fetish for stone, and when Lucy commented on this, Glorfindel choked again. He hastily told her Maeglin's father had been a miner. Sort of.

"He's like a dwarf." Lucy mused aloud, still sounding congested. Glorfindel paled and Aeloth sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Lucy could have sworn she muttered "Idril all over again" beneath her breath.

"He is Sinda." Glorfindel explained in that gentle, pacifying tone he usually took with her. "Part Sinda, that is. They live underground, and I, ah… under trees, sometimes too. His father… his father had dealings with the dwarves. But this is a very impolite thing to say. You should not mention it."

In front of them the hall was cavernous, their footsteps echoing hollowly against the polished floor. Despite burrowing into the bedrock of Gondolin's plateau, there was very little marble in Maeglin's estate; just lots of polished gold and darkness. The elf lord seemed allergic to windows, as there were none. Ahead of them there was a pit in the center of the hall. It was hollowed out in a massive circle that dropped down hundreds of feet, until it reached what Lucy presumed were the dungeons.

"I want to meet them," she said, sniffing hard and rubbing the cloth beneath her nose.

"Meet who?" Glorfindel demurred.

"The dwarves."

His response was automatic. "No."

"Please."

" **No**." He sounded upset.

Lucy tugged on Glorfindel’s sleeve and gave him the most puppy-eyed face she could manage, pressing herself against his arm. "Please?" she begged. "You can come with me." The elf lord’s lips twisted into a guilty frown, and he looked away.

"Maybe." he hedged sullenly. Aeloth sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.

"Laurëfindil." she warned, but by that time Glorfindel's guards had met up with Maeglin's, and the three of them quieted as they were led deeper into the hall. Maeglin himself met them at the top of the pit, and even though he'd been warned that they were coming, it was clear that he hadn't believed it for a second. There was a scroll of some sort in his left hand, and next to him was a pale-haired ellon, dressed in practical looking clothes as he gestured here and there about the chamber before finally pointing to a giant lamp hanging from the ceiling. They seemed to be planning on building something.

The air smelt strange, like moisture and metal, and it was cool. Lucy hugged herself, wrapping her arms across her chest, but even the persistent chill could not deter her excitement. Maeglin looked the same as she remembered him: dark, lissom, and perpetually morbid. He glared as they approached, his eyes tracking from her to Glorfindel, upon which his expression soured further.

"You." he groused.

"Hello." Glorfindel demurred, ever respectful. There was a rigid, almost-painful tension to his shoulders.

"I don't remember inviting you." Maeglin said. Beside him, the pale-haired elf looked uncomfortable.

"Lord Maeglin," he began. Lucy decided he was the seneschal. "The note –"

"Why didn't you visit me?" Lucy demanded, cutting her off. Aeloth quickly shut her up by slapping a hand over her mouth.

"You taught her Sindarin." Maeglin drawled, looking even more put out. A small smile crossed his lips, but it was more of a grimace. "Charming, really."

_A cat._ Lucy thought. He was definitely like a cat. It was as if someone had sprayed water all over his fur, and now he was sulking. Glorfindel put his hand on her shoulder, gentle and over-protective as always, but when he spoke he sounded apologetic.

"She wished to visit." he said, then after a short, hesitant pause "And I wish to speak with you." Behind them there was a loud _clang_ from somewhere in the pit as a heavy beam landed on a stony outcropping, followed by the lilting murmur of elvish voices.

"We have nothing to talk about." Maeglin snapped, before sliding his dark-eyed gaze in Lucy's direction, gesturing dismissively to her nose with a graceful flutter of his slim white hand. "Why is she bleeding?"

"M'not bleeding!" Lucy declared defensively. Aeloth shushed her again.

"I think I liked you better when you were quiet." Maeglin quipped.

"My Lord." his seneschal said. " **Please**."

Lucy ignored his peevishness and squirmed out from underneath Glorfindel's hand. She strolled over to the other elf lord, a swagger to her step. Nothing was going to ruin this day for her. Nothing. Not smoke men in shadows or tar on her fingers or blond-haired elf lords, and definitely not Maeglin himself.

"I want tea," she said, reaching out to tug on his shirt. Maeglin made a face that translated to _ick_ and leaned back, making a _shooing_ motion with his delicate hands.

"A goblin." he declared. "A goblin with no manners. Keep your fingers to yourself."

"She's not a goblin!" Glorfindel declared, finally sounding offended.

"Language, my Lord." warned the seneschal. Maeglin glowered like a five-year old and shoved his construction plans into the waiting hands of the pale-haired elf. Lucy ignored them all and skipped herself into Maeglin's office. Aeloth seemed to be wearing thin on patience that day, so when Lucy disappeared the ever-calm elleth made herself scarce. The others were slow to join her in the adjacent chamber, and while Glorfindel remained well behaved, the longer they lingered, the sourer Maeglin's disposition became. The two elf lords eventually arrived in the office. As a servant poured them their tea, Maeglin glared at Lucy from across his blackwood desk.

"So." he sneered. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" At that very moment one of Glorfindel's guards came to fetch him; the elf lord apparently knew one of the architects, and the other ellon wanted to discuss some sort of plans with him. Nodding once Glorfindel excused himself reluctantly, leaving the two of them alone. The door was open, and the rest of the guards were waiting just outside, so they had little privacy, but in Lucy's mind it was enough. She sipped on her tea, swinging her legs back and forth. Maeglin watched her with hooded eyes, his dead white hand tapping in a rhythmic drone across the armrest.

"You are a very persistent child," he declared.

“I’m not a child.”

“Semantics.”

"You were supposed to visit." Lucy countered. Maeglin took a sip of his drink.

"I lied."

"That's okay. I still like you."

The elf lord coughed and choked on his tea. A stream of dark liquid spilled down his front. "Pardon?" he gasped, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. From the main room there was another _clang_ as something dropped down into a deeper level into the pit. Lucy pointed to Maeglin, unperturbed.

"You got tea on you." she said. Maeglin wiped ineffectually at his front, a blush beginning to darken his cheeks. Lucy leaned forward, cupping her hand around her mouth so she could whisper loudly. The entire thing was mostly ineffectual.

"What I said, about liking you. Don't tell Glorfindel that. He'll get jealous."

"Persistent." Maeglin groused, although his blush was deeper. "Persistent and **annoying**."

"You know you like me." Lucy sing-songed. Maeglin's eyes flew to hers, comically wide and far too unguarded. The blush bloomed all the way across his nose.

"What?" he said.

"We're friends, right? Friends like each other."

Some of the panic left Maeglin's features, and he returned to grumbling under his breath. "What do you want?" he muttered. Lucy was thrilled with his quick assessment of the situation. Tommy had always said he was smart.

"I want out of the city," she declared.

"No one leaves Gondolin," he said, looking down at his shirt as he wrung some excess tea out of the hem. His black hair fell in a silky curtain along one of his shoulders. "Especially you."

" **You** leave." Lucy said. Maeglin sighed in a long-suffering manner.

"And what makes you think I do?"

"Because you're Sinda. From Nan Elmoth."

The elf lord’s eyes snapped back to hers. There was anger in his gaze, and shock. His pale hands curled around the armrests of his chair so hard his nails carved crescents into the wood.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Glorfindel." Lucy said without compunction, then added "Morwen, too." She gestured vaguely to his features, making a circling motion in the air. "You look different from the others."

Maeglin sneered, hunching his shoulders in a defensive manner. "So sorry I do not look like everyone's perfect little Vanya."

"I don't care about that." Lucy said, and took another loud sip of her tea. It was cold in Maeglin office, and the drink was warm. "Elves are elves, and I'm human. But you and I are friends."

"We're not."

"Yes we are." she hummed. "You're just mad because you're jealous."

"I am not jealous!"

Lucy finished off the dregs of her drink, smacking her lips in satisfaction. Loudly putting down the cup, she grabbed the edge of her chair and dragged it around his table until she was sitting in front of him. Maeglin leaned as far back as he could, casting a panicked, surreptitious glance towards the door. Lucy sat down, their knees touching as she leaned forward.

"I need to talk to you." she said, completely serious as she gave him her best _this-is-very-important-information_ face, and paused for effect. "Alone."

"I don't want to talk alone!" Maeglin snapped in a hissing whisper. Suddenly he was leaning forward, until their faces were only a foot apart. "I want you out of my office!" Good god, did he ever have long eyelashes. You could **braid** them, they were so thick. Still, Lucy was undeterred.

"I'm not leaving. You said we could visit."

"Only because it is propriety, and Glorfindel is persistent."

"You don't like him."

Maeglin didn't mince his words. "No."

"Why not?"

"He abandoned my mother."

" **Really**?" said Lucy, honestly surprised. Another _clang_ sounded from the pit, followed by the cacophony of voices. Maeglin grimaced and dug his hands even further into the arm rests. His nails were leaving gouges.

"If you ask about my mother again, you will regret it." It was a promise. Lucy wisely dropped the subject.

"I want to leave the city," she reiterated. Maeglin sneered further, slightly tilting his head.

"You?" he scoffed. "One of the Dark Lord's agents? I don’t think so. I will not betray my uncle."

Lucy played her ace card. "I know about Idril."

The blush returned, this time all the way down to Maeglin’s neck.

"Are you **blackmailing** me?" he gasped, incredulous. Lucy supposed she was. She hummed in confirmation.

"Teaching you Sindarin was the worst decision ever."

"So you will take me, then?"

"Are you **sure** you were not a ward of the Fëanorians?" Maeglin demanded, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Because I must admit you are reminding me an awful lot of my uncles in this moment."

A light clicked on in Lucy's head.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes going wide. "So that's what Fëanorians are!" They were always being mentioned, but no one had ever thought to explain what they were. Outside the open door Lucy could see Glorfindel returning. Maeglin rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, putting a hand over his face to try and hide the blush. Lucy leaned forward and patted his knee.

"Promise me." she urged, her fingers tap-tap-tapping against his kneecap, and the blush got deeper.

"No." he said. Glorfindel was almost there.

"Promise me." Lucy insisted, knocking her knee against his. "Or I'll tell Idril. I'll tell everyone."

"I promise to **visit**." Maeglin mumbled beneath his hand. It wasn’t what she’d wanted, but it was good enough. Lucy decided she would get the rest of the details out of him later. At that moment Glorfindel returned. He eyed the lack of space between them with no small amount of concern.

"Promise what?" the elf lord said slowly, his eyebrows furrowing. Lucy got up from her chair, skipping around Maeglin's desk so she could wander over to Glorfindel's side and tug on his sleeve.

"Nothing." She said, looking up at him with a soft smile. Glorfindel stared back, perplexed. "I'm ready to go home now." she told him. Maeglin remained slouched in his chair.

* * *

 The tar wouldn't come off.

Once they'd returned to Glorfindel's estate Aeloth had dragged out a shallow bowl of water, and together the two of them had tried to scrub the blackness from her fingers. They washed her hands for a good half an hour, attempting all manner of creams and soaps, and still it made no dent. The soot had sunk into her skin, slowly seeping down her too-thin digits in some sort of weird, speckled pattern. It didn't hurt, but the fact that it hadn't come off was alarming. Aeloth's expression was concerned as she carefully held Lucy's hand between hers, palm up and thumb running absently across her fingers.

The elleth's long sleeves had been pulled back, the pale mauve fabric tied into knots at her elbows and her ash brown hair tucked hastily into her collar. Outside Lucy's windows the sun was beginning to set, the warm array of ultraviolet colors flaring over the heavy ridge of the mountains. Lucy's kitten – who had finally been given the somewhat unfortunate name of _Pickle_ – was playing by the window ledge, swatting at a dragonfly that was clinging to a flower.

"I do not know how you managed this." Aeloth admitted in a somewhat frustrated manner. "What did you touch?"

"Nothing." said Lucy automatically, and hoped she wouldn't be caught in a lie. Aeloth wasn't as insistent as Glorfindel, however, and the elleth merely _hmmed_ and stared harder at her hand, looking at the blackness with consternation.

"Maybe it's a symptom." she murmured. "From the time before."

"In Maeglin's dungeon?" Lucy supplied. Aeloth shook her head, finally seeming to give up on cleaning the tar. She reached beneath the table that the basin was sitting on, rummaging soundlessly in her leather pack before withdrawing a small roll of bandages. It looked like the elleth was going to try and hide the discoloration instead.

"No." Aeloth corrected. "The time **before**." _With Sauron_ was the unspoken implication that followed. Lucy looked towards the nearest wall. The setting sun almost made it seem like there was the shadow of someone standing behind her. She turned around, but all she saw was her cat.

"Do you ever see anything?" Lucy asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. Aeloth eyed her briefly before gesturing wordlessly for her to hold out her hand. Lucy did so, palm down with her fingers spread wide. Aeloth unclipped the role of bandages.

"See what, my dear?"

Lucy gestured vaguely with her other hand. "Shadows on the walls. Things like that."

The ancient elleth shook her head and started wrapping the gauze around her hand, starting with her palm.

"No." she demurred. "Why would there be shadows, child?"

"No reason." Lucy said quickly, looking back towards the wall. There was no shadow this time.

"Are the bandages too tight?" Aeloth asked. Lucy _hmmed_ and shook her head. Over by her window there was a tiny mewl as Pickle knocked into the dollhouse, sending toy figurines scattering across the tiles. Aeloth finished wrapping the bandage around her hand, securing the end with a jewelled pin and testing Lucy's fingers for stiffness. Once that was done she walked over to the closet, pulling out a brand new dress. It was made of alternating, effervescent panels of blue and periwinkle, edged with strands of silver, and very, very fine. Lucy wrinkled her nose in distaste when Aeloth brought it over to her.

"Why do I need to change?" she asked as Aeloth laid out the dress on the bed. The elleth returned to the closet to grab a matching over-robe and slippers. She turned to Lucy, gesturing wordlessly for her to disrobe. The air was growing chilly as the sun slowly set. The minute Lucy took off her current gown the change in temperature caused goose bumps to ripple along her arms.

"Laurëfindil has visitors tonight." Aeloth said. When Lucy looked at her in question, she added "Ecthelion, for dinner" as an explanation.

Lucy grimaced, shivering as she stood beside the bed in nothing but her shift. The elleth walked towards her with the dress. Pickle was still by the dollhouse, chewing on the head of one of her toys. "Why?" Lucy said churlishly, sticking her arms straight up as Aeloth tugged the gown over her head. It was very soft and thick, a childish version of the dresses she saw elvish ladies wearing, but still ornate and beautiful.

"He and Laurëfindil are good friends." Aeloth explained, adjusting the dress across her shoulders before pulling Lucy's hair aside so she could lace up the back. "They have known each other for many years."

"Then why doesn't he visit more often?" Lucy asked.

"He is a Lord of Gondolin." Aeloth explained, tying the laces at the top of Lucy's dress. Lucy shivered in the growing chill, fisting her hands in the front of the fabric as she looked towards the open window. Her kitten had disappeared. "Ecthelion is as busy as Laurëfindil. Sometimes more so. He has been a Lord for much longer, as he is older." Casually the elleth's hand came to rest on Lucy's bare skin just beneath the nape of her neck. "You have very beautiful skin for an Edain." she mused.

Lucy's expression twisted, an ugly feeling growing inside her chest. She looked to the other side of the room; her kitten wasn't by the golden harp, either.

"Why do you care about what I look like?" she asked. Aeloth adjusted her outer robe atop her dress. "Why are **all** of you so obsessed with being pretty?" The elleth walked around to Lucy's front to fix the fabric, her fingers delicately weaving together as she looped the cord of the garment's ties around oval, opal-like buttons.

"Why not?"

"Because it's fake." Lucy spat, glaring at her. "Because things can be ugly _inside_." Then she remembered a certain golden-haired elf lord, and added somewhat sheepishly "except for Glorfindel." Her cheeks felt oddly hot.

Aeloth smiled benignly and pulled Lucy's hair free of her robe. An errant gust of wind wound its way through the open window, rustling curtains and making the fairy lamps tinkle like wind chimes. The air smelt like ash – like some kind of faint, indiscernible mixture of charcoal – and it made Lucy sneeze.

"Laurëfindil saw shadows, too, when he was young." Aeloth began conversationally, sitting Lucy down in front of her mirror in order to re-braid her hair. "He was very creative as a child."

Lucy was pretty sure the sort of shadows Glorfindel saw were definitely not the kind that were stalking her, but didn't say so. The black tar on her fingers itched beneath the bandages. She scratched surreptitiously at it with her other hand, her eyes scanning the circumference of her room. As she did so Aeloth draped a golden pendant around her neck; the bauble at the end studded with a trio of small stones that sort of looked diamonds.

"There." Aeloth said triumphantly. "All done."

Lucy frowned, eying her empty room.

"Have you seen my cat?" she asked, turning all the way around as her gaze darted from point to point in search of her missing kitten. There was no tell-tale flash of white fur, and she was pretty sure Pickle wasn't hiding underneath her bed.

"Your cat?" Aeloth hummed.

"Yes. The white one. He's missing."

"The creature is probably playing elsewhere." Aeloth offered, leaning back and hunching down to pick Lucy's discarded clothes off the floor. "You can search for it after supper." Lucy frowned, but reasoned this was all right. Glorfindel's estate **was** pretty big.

"Is Morwen coming?" she asked. Aeloth shook her head, smoothing out the wrinkles in Lucy's day dress before neatly putting it away in the closet.

"No. She is still ill."

"What about Idril?"

"The princess will not be there."

Lucy pouted, swinging her feet as she sat on the stool. "Can I see her tomorrow?"

"Of course." Aeloth agreed, not looking in her direction. Lucy reached up to fiddle with her pendant, wrinkling her nose at the growing stench of ash on the air. Where was it coming from? There was an uncomfortable feeling growing beneath her breastbone, and she didn't like it. Suddenly Aeloth _tched_ her tongue, as if remembering something important.

"Your other necklace." she said as she collected Lucy's cloak and outside slippers. "I left it in the bathing room when I fetched the water. Can you bring it to me, please?"

Lucy grumbled under her breath and pouted mightily, but did as the elleth asked. Her slipper-clad feet scuffed against the carpet, her long skirts dragging behind her. Around her the air was slightly cooler than she would have liked, but Lucy reasoned it was because of the season and the setting sun. As she drew her outer robe more closely to her chest, her thoughts turned to the future, just for a bit, and she frowned. She wasn't looking forward to winter.

_Tommy would_ , she thought, and there was a pang of sadness in Lucy's chest, but not as strong as before. She pushed the door open and entered the antechamber, letting it swing shut on its own as she rummaged around for the necklace. The room wasn't big and mostly bare, housing her bathing supplies and a wooden tub that was currently drained of water.

"Ah, never mind, my dear." Aeloth called out, her voice slightly muffled through the wood. "I found it."

Lucy huffed and turned around, still scuffing her feet as she childishly yanked open the door. "Did you find Pickle too?" she asked, even though she knew Aeloth hadn't.

Her room wasn't on the other side.

It took several long, stuttering seconds for Lucy to realize that her bedroom was gone. When she did she registered the sight of low, rounded ceilings and even quainter rounded halls. Everything was miniature, from the chair just down the hallway to the tiny jacket hanging by the front door. There was a little man with hairy feet, standing right in front of her. He had a pipe partially raised to his lips.

"Oh." said Lucy. Suddenly, the twisting feeling and smell of ash made sense. "Oh, **shit**." The stranger in front of her blinked.

For a moment the two of them stood there, staring at each other in shock. Lucy gazed at the stranger, trying to understand why she was looking at a very startled hobbit dressed in a smart red robe and neatly pressed pyjamas. He had sandy brown hair and very large feet, and the pipe that was casually clutched between his fingers was long. Behind him Lucy spied a window. The glass was mostly covered in vines, and it was dark outside. The hobbit scrunched his nose and raised a finger, opening his mouth to speak, before stopping and starting again.

"You'll have to forgive me," he finally said, snapping his fingers idly in the air as if trying to remember something important. "I don't seem to recall inviting you."

"You didn't." Lucy deadpanned, and decided this was the most surreal conversation she'd ever had. The hobbit blinked, then rocked back on his heels, his free hand gripping the left lapel of his robe. From somewhere in another room Lucy could hear the crackle of a hearth fire. Everything smelt like dusty paper and wood smoke.

"Oh." the hobbit began, then coughed to clear his throat. "Well then, yes… ah, I must say, I'm surprised to see you here." He squinted at her opulent clothes. "One of the elves, are you? You're a bit short."

Lucy's lips twisted in distaste. Why on earth would she want to be an _elf_? Humanity was perfectly acceptable.

"I'm their ward," she corrected. She meant to ask the hobbit where she was, but the creature had already scrunched up his brow, _humming_ and _hawing_ as he nervously went to put his pipe in his front pocket, adjusting his cotton nightcap.

"With the Sindar, you say?" he mused. "I, ah… hmm. I must admit, they won't think too kindly to you being here. Don't much like anyone whose not an elf interfering in their business. Prickly lot, they are."

"I'm not with the Sindar." Lucy corrected yet again. "My caretakers are Noldor." Their conversation was getting stranger and stranger by the second, and the tugging sensation beneath her breastbone was turning into a _tearing_ , like something fragile was breaking in the space around her.

"Noldor?" said the hobbit, blinking comically as his eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "You mean the Deep Elves? Why, they've been dead for over six thousand years. Wiped themselves out, they did. The whole lot of them. A terrible tragedy."

Something queer dropped in Lucy's gut, and the tearing sensation became a _ripping_. There was a ringing in her ears, loud and incessant.

"What?" she choked out. Even though she didn't mean to, her thoughts immediately flew to Glorfindel. The hobbit smiled sheepishly, smoothing a hand down the front of his robe.

"Sorry." he said. "I'm being terribly rude, aren't I? My mother taught me better manners, she did. It just isn't every day you have elvish folks or elvish-related folks wandering through your closet door." He stuck out his hand, as if to shake hers.

"The name's Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, of The Shire. What's yours?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	20. The Dead Are Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised April 28, 2016

Lucy's first reaction to meeting Bilbo was to slam the door in his face.

Without a word, she back-stepped into the orderly mess of tweed coats and bagged potatoes and shut herself in the darkness, only to reopen the door and discover that her room **still** wasn't there. So she tried again. And again, slamming the closet repeatedly as her panic grew and unfurled.

"No." she whimpered, opening the door several times over before standing on the other side and trying to walk **in** to the closet. "No, no, no. Shit!"

Bilbo stood there like a fish out of water, his right hand raised and index finger slightly curled in question.

"I, ah, um…" he began. Lucy gripped the door handle in both hands and rattled it hard, clenching her teeth in a grimace. "Is there something particular about my closet that catches your interest?"

"A portal." Lucy said, circling the door to the other side before re-grabbing the handle in both hands and bracing her slipper-clad foot against the frame to pull. "There was a portal –"

"Po **tatoes**?" Bilbo queried, blinking owlishly.

" **Portal**! I don't want your potatoes!"

The hobbit looked affronted.

"There's nothing wrong with a good bag of potatoes, my mother used to say. But I guess you elvish folks think differently." he paused, and snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes. Right. Your name?"

Lucy gave up on trying to yank the door off its hinges, leaning forward to thump her head repeatedly against the wood. "I'm not an elf," she mumbled, and the misery she felt in that moment was so acute that she was completely unprepared for it. "I'm not. I'm Lucy." She didn't know what to do with herself.

Bilbo nodded quickly, like a bobble-headed doll. "Of course, of course. Must say, I've never heard of a _Lucy_ before."

"It's my name!"

"Sorry." he said again, sounding somewhat flustered. "I'm just not used to Sindarin names, you see. Never had much to do with the elves."

"Noldor." Lucy snapped, leaning back and looking around the room for another potential escape route. Her gaze landed on the front door. Before her brain could catch up with her feet she was breaking into a run. "I told you, my caretakers are Noldor –"

Bilbo quickly swiveled on his heels and goose-stepped after her.

"Ah, ah, ah, I don't think it's wise to be going outside this late at night!" he began, but Lucy had already grabbed the handle. Her fingers scrabbled at the nearly dozen deadbolts that the hobbit had installed along the inside. Locks. Why did he have so many locks?

"Really now." Bilbo said, his pace turning into an outright jig as he walked across the hall. He held up his hands to stop her. "I **insist** –"

Lucy managed to get the last latch undone, and then she was swinging the door wide, the wood slamming open with a _thunk_ into the rounded stucco wall. Only on the other side, there were trees. Giant trees, so large you could live inside them. A little dirt path was winding its way down from Bilbo's front step. It was chilly out, the air thin compared to that of the First Age, but overwhelmingly choked with the scent of decomposing mulch.

Lucy didn't recognize it.

"This isn't Hobbiton!" she exclaimed. Bilbo quickly maneuvered around her and slammed the door before she could step outside. He expertly re-latched all the deadbolts.

"What in the world are you going on about?" the hobbit demanded, his eyebrow raised. "Of course this is Hobbiton –"

"But it’s full of trees!"

"It's **always** been full of trees," he said, then squinted hard at her, suddenly suspicious. "Just how lost are you? I thought you were living with the Sindar."

"Noldor." Lucy warbled miserably, sinking down into a puddle of silk on the floor. "I told you, they were Noldor." She placed a hand over her eyes to try and drive off an incoming migraine, curling her other blackened hand close to her chest. Lucy had wanted to go to The Shire. She really had, only this was apparently six thousand years in the future.

"Sorry." Bilbo said. Lucy could hear him shuffling about in front of her, fidgeting with the pipe in his pocket and the lapels on the front of his robe. "Lucy, you said your name was? Any last one?"

Lucy tried pressing her lips into a thin line to keep them from trembling, but it didn't work. "It doesn't matter," she said. It really didn’t. She lived with Glorfindel now, but the realization that she couldn’t even remember **his** last name burned. Oh god, she'd been so careless. Lucy could hear the hobbit shifting from foot to foot in front of her, the mood suddenly awkward in the absence of her physically thrashing about. She was trying hard, **so** hard to think of what to do next, but her brain wasn't working right and she could barely grasp the idea that she had time-skipped into the future.

"Are you planning to stay the night, perhaps?" Bilbo began, then hastily added "Because you see, my floors can't be all that comfortable. If you're staying, then perhaps I can set you up somewhere better. Or maybe your sort prefer to sleep in closets? In which case I can find you some extra blankets, but still, I –"

"Do you know any elves?" Lucy asked, removing her hand from her eyes to rub at her temple. Her other hand – the blackened one that was curled close to her chest – had begun to hurt. She was used to dealing with elves, and they lived for a **long** time, so maybe she could find one that actually remembered her. They could tell her what happened, she was sure.

Again, Bilbo shook his head. "Sorry. Sindar don't like my kind. Or any kind that's not their kind, really."

Lucy thought back to Tommy's books and movies, wracking her brain for half-forgotten names.

"What about Elrond? Do you know an Elrond?"

Bilbo expression became quizzical. Behind him there was a loud _snap_ as a piece of wood popped in the hearth. "Never heard of an Elrond before. He someone important? Your caretaker, perhaps?" Lucy's desperation began to ratchet up another notch. When she leaned forward, Bilbo leaned back, overtly wary.

"What about Thranduil?" Lucy began. "The King of Mirkwood?" Mentally, she began to run through the list of elves she could remember from the Third Age, which was basically none at all. "Legolas? Arwen?" Then, her heart pounding in her chest with hope "Glorfindel?"

Bilbo paled somewhat, and looked a bit uncomfortable. "Thranduil? Good Gods of The Deep, why would I know **him**? I don't know what this Mirkwood business is about, and I've never heard of a _Legolas_ or a _Glorfindel_ , but Thranduil's not the King of the Sindar. He's their Prince. Nasty as his father, I hear."

"His father?" Lucy echoed dumbly. Bilbo nodded sagely.

"Oropher. Took over after the Dark Lord killed their last King. Terribly vindictive sort of fellow, but, well, living through that mess of a First Age will do that to a person, I suppose."

Lucy's heart dropped. It went down, down, down into her gullet and stayed there, like a heavy stone sticky with pitch. She couldn't breathe. She was trying, but there was no air in her lungs. Horrified, Lucy slapped both her hands over her mouth. All she could hear was the crackle of the hearth fire; she could feel the itch of dust against her nose.

"Oh god." she said through her fingers. Bilbo looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Oh god, I think I broke it again."

"Broke what?" he queried. Lucy felt sicker.

"I'm going to throw up," she told him.

The hobbit immediately sprung into action, madly turning in circles before rushing back to his closet to grab a wooden pail. "Wait, wait, wait!" he chanted, returning with the rickety bucket. "Just wait! That carpet was very expensive!"

He shoved the pail in front of her. Lucy took it, but didn't puke, even though she wanted to. Slowly, she rocked herself back and forth to try and will away the ache in her stomach, the pounding in her head and the growing sense of horror that was eating away at her bones. Bilbo watched her in a sympathetic manner.

"The Noldor –" Lucy began, then stopped to swallow bile, to keep it from coming out. "The Deep Elves, why did – why did they die?"

Bilbo scrunched up his nose a bit, raising a hand to rub at the sandy brown hair curling along the nape of his neck.

"Thought you'd know that, seeing as you're a ward of the Sindar." he mused. Lucy was feeling too ill to correct him. "Thought **everyone** knew, really. Terrible tragedy, it was. So much waste." Lucy began to look and feel particularly queasy. Bilbo pursed his lips when she did, cutting himself off from another tangent. "Would you like some tea?" he suggested, almost as if the thought were a distraction. Then he added, "might help with the nerves."

Miserably, Lucy nodded.

Without saying anything else the hobbit stuck out his hand to help her off the floor. Lucy took the proffered appendage in a shaky manner, feeling far too fragile in a situation that was once again turning surreal. Bilbo's hand was warm and callused, his palm noticeably wider than hers.

"Do you take sugar?" Bilbo asked, in reference to the tea. He let go of her hand and gestured for her to follow him through a rounded entrance into an adjacent room. Lucy trailed after the hobbit, her un-blackened hand braced against the curving wall for support.

"No." she mumbled. "I hate it."

"Shame, that." Bilbo intoned as he rounded the corner. Lucy could hear him rummaging around in the other room. When she turned the corner as well it was to see him in front of a large hearth built into the wall, a pair of oven mitts covering his hands. With exaggerated care, the hobbit placed a blackened kettle onto a heated metal hook. Bilbo's study was warm and cozy, filled with blankets and books and scrolls. The logs cracked and sparked as the fire flared beneath it. Lucy had always wanted to visit a hobbit hole, but not like this. Never like this.

"The Noldor." she repeated, stopping in her tracks to rub automatically at an ache that had sprung to life in her chest. "What happened to them?"

Bilbo looked towards her, blinking twice. "Noldor?" he said. He pursed his lips and wiggled his nose as if thinking hard. "Don't know much about them," the hobbit admitted. "It was so long ago. As I heard it, the Fëanorians got involved with a witch. That's what started it all."

And then, Lucy was falling through the floor.

She was tumbling straight down and then she wasn't, landing in the empty wooden tub in the adjacent room next to hers. The impact was so hard it rattled her tailbone, the door she'd gone through still swinging wide on its hinges as if no time had passed at all.

"Lucy?" Aeloth queried from her bedroom, and she sounded so far away. For a moment, all Lucy could do was sit there, shocked into stillness as she registered that _yes_ , she was back in the First Age, and _no_ , Bilbo wasn’t with her. There was nothing to indicate that she'd gone anywhere at all. No time had passed, but it had felt so real, so utterly tangible. Lucy could still feel the texture of Bilbo's carpet beneath her fingertips and the tickle of book dust wafting against her nose.

Six thousand. Six thousand years, he'd said, and the Noldor were all dead –

"Lucy?" Aeloth asked. Lucy looked towards the door to find the elleth standing there, a slightly quizzical expression on her face. "What are you doing in the tub?" she said. When Lucy didn’t respond the ancient elf sighed and stepped forward, gesturing with her free hand for her to get up. "You are going to ruin your dress." She chided, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. "Come now, stand up."

Lucy did, but probably not in the way the elleth would have wanted.

She gasped and came to as the world suddenly veered into sharp, excruciating focus, her memories of the time before returning in frantic jolts. Black hands, chest hurting, missing kitten and the door to nowhere. Bilbo, a Hobbiton covered in trees and six thousand years missing, then back to the First Age again.

Lucy rushed to her feet, nearly tripping over her dress as she scrambled to get out of the tub.

"Child, calm yourself –" Aeloth began, reaching forward to help her, but Lucy pushed her out of the way and rushed towards the door. The elleth stumbled with the impact.

"Lucy!" she exclaimed, but already Lucy was at the entrance, her hands feverishly traveling across the wood as she felt for cracks with a queer sort of terror. Her eyes were wide, her breathing quick.

"Cracks," she mumbled, crouching down so she could feel along the grout between the tiles, too. "Cracks, cracks, cracks. There was a crack. I broke it –"

"Lucy," Aeloth said, leaning down to pull her up. Lucy ignored her and shook her hand off. " **Lucy** " the elleth continued in a firmer tone, and this time she was insistent. "Speak in Sindarin, my dear."

Lucy stopped, then blinked. Because yes, yes of course. She was supposed to speak Sindarin, wasn't she? Glorfindel couldn't understand her, otherwise. Glorfindel. _Glorfindel._ He had to know.

Lucy looked up at Aeloth, blinking owlishly as she remained on the floor.

"Sorry." she blurted out, and didn't elaborate. Aeloth gave her a faint, patronizing smile.

"It's alright, my dear," she said. Lucy rocked back and forth a bit on her feet as she hooked her fingers around the edge of her toes. No cracks. Don't step on the cracks. It hadn't been six thousand years. It **hadn't**.

"Where's Glorfindel?" she asked as innocently as she could manage. Aeloth blinked at her abruptness.

"Laurëfindil?" she said in surprise. "He's in his study, I believe. We will meet him soon, in the dining hall –" but already Lucy was up and scrambling forward, bolting through her room and into the main hall. Her feet pattered loudly against the stone floor, her hair streaming out behind her.

"Lucy!" Aeloth exclaimed. Lucy didn't stop, and she didn't care if she heard her.

Down the stairs she ran, one step after another, following the path by memory and a mantra playing out in her head. There was a crack, a crack and a _ripping_ sensation, but Glorfindel was her constant and he'd been so for the past six months. He couldn’t be dead. Out of all the elves she'd met, he was the only one who would truly believe her. He **always** believed her, and Lucy had nowhere else to turn.

When she reached the fifth floor she broke into a run, dashing frantically down the hallway to his study before slamming open the doors. Glorfindel was standing next to his table, dressed in ivory and his appearance immaculate. His long hair was tumbling across his arms and looping like gold along the edge of the desk. When she entered he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Lucy?" he said, concern coloring his voice, but already Lucy was rushing across the room, nearly losing a slipper in the process and knocking over a stack of books. There was someone else in the study, but she barely registered them.

"Glorfindel!" she gasped. He dropped the tin soldier he was holding, stepping away from the table. Lucy crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his middle as she desperately clung to the fabric. Tommy was gone, and Maeglin wasn't there. Glorfindel had to know. He **had** to.

"It broke." she babbled in English. "It broke, it broke, it broke, we have to fix it –"

She felt Glorfindel reach down, sliding his hands around her back as he held her close. In that moment Lucy had never been so thankful for their awkward height difference in her entire life. The elf was big and warm and smelt like sunflowers, and when he was near everything seemed to be all right. Lucy clung to him like a leech, her fingers tangling in his robe as she stared out at nothing and tried to control her breathing. She felt his own hand go to the back of her head, the other sliding to her waist as he leaned down to better hold her.

"Lucy." he soothed. Lucy didn't know when his lilting, musical voice had started to bring her comfort, but it did. Glorfindel turned his head towards her, and she clung on tighter. Six thousand. Six thousand **years** , but she'd already been lost. "Lucy, what is wrong?" he asked.

There was the shuffling of paper from somewhere behind them. The _tic-tac_ of little metal pieces being placed back atop the map-board.

"Is this a bad time?" came the smooth, rich voice of an elf. Even though she didn't see him all that often, Lucy recognized it as belonging to Ecthelion. She felt Glorfindel run his hand across her hair, his form curling towards hers as he spoke. Lucy wished she could calm down when he did so, but her heart was racing.

"No, it is fine." Glorfindel said, then added delicately "She has just… it has been a very long day."

A long day. A long six thousand **years**. Lucy turned towards him, standing on her tiptoes so she could whisper her next words to him. He leaned down further to make it easier. Even though Glorfindel remained outwardly calm, Lucy could feel the full body shiver that ran through him, his fingers tightening and curling in her hair.

"I broke it." Lucy told him. "I broke it again."

"What did you break?" Glorfindel said in that gentle way of his, but there was a slightly hoarse edge to his tone. Lucy held on tighter, struggling to explain exactly what had happened in a way that made sense in Sindarin.

"There was a shadow. I saw shadows, and then I was gone. I left, and I hurt. It broke."

Suddenly Lucy could feel the tension in him: the tightening of his muscles across his back beneath his shirt, the clenching of his hand in her hair. Glorfindel turned his own head to speak directly into her ear.

"We will talk of this later," he said, and it was a promise. Although Lucy desperately wanted to talk **now** , she was terrified of falling through another rip in time, so all she did was bite on her bottom lip and nod her head in silence. Glorfindel pulled back, but Lucy didn't move away. She clung to his side, her fingers curling in the ivory fabric of his tunic as she hid herself beneath his arm. Ecthelion watched them from across the table, a scroll held between his hands. He was dressed in blue again, although the tunic and robes he was wearing were embroidered with exquisite patterns of silver. His pale lips were thinned into a frown, his black eyebrows drawn together as he eyed Lucy's proximity to Glorfindel. A moment later the ellon shifted his gaze to rest solely on the elf lord. Outside, the sun continued to set, the chirp of crickets increasing in volume.

"She's friendlier." he commented blandly. Lucy felt Glorfindel rest his hand atop her shoulder, his fingers absently fiddling with a stray lock of her hair.

"She is doing well." Glorfindel said, and Ecthelion's frown deepened. Lucy didn't hate the other elf lord, but in that moment she desperately wanted the dark-haired ellon to leave. If he did she could speak to Glorfindel that much quicker. She tightened her grip on the golden elf’s tunic, and as she did so Ecthelion began to lightly slap the scroll between his hands. He used the rolled piece of paper to gesture languidly between the two of them.

"This is not a good thing," he warned, and Lucy felt Glorfindel tense. "She is _Edain_ , remember?"

"She is… she is a child." Glorfindel said, although his explanation sounded half-hearted at best. Ecthelion was clearly unconvinced.

"You keep telling yourself that." he deadpanned. Lucy had no idea what they were going on about, and didn't care. She had more important things to discuss, like cracks in time and six thousand missing years.

"Úcarala ea nwalca, Ecthelion." Glorfindel said, and he sounded very sad.

"Vá ea fintalë." Ecthelion snapped in equally incomprehensible Quenya. Around them, the sensation of _ripping_ got worse.

* * *

Dinner was not uncomfortable, per say, but there was a terseness to it that put Lucy even more on edge. The others were on edge too, although it seemed to be over different things.

There were five of them that night – Lucy, the two elf lords, Aeloth and Aearmarth – along with a servant who was waiting on them just outside the door. They dined in the same small room that they usually supped at, but the good silverware had been pulled out, and the dinner itself was more expansive. Glorfindel and Ecthelion got along well, and one didn't have to look at them for very long to realize they were extremely comfortable in each other's presence. Glorfindel ate dessert instead of dinner, while Ecthelion helped himself to his tenth glass of wine. The dark-haired elf lord was slender and exceedingly ethereal, but apparently had the constitution of a tank. If she hadn't been so anxious, Lucy would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. She couldn't take the banality of it, really: of the two of them, conversing rapidly in a mixture of Quenya and Sindarin, picking noncommittally at their food while Aeloth and Aearmarth listened but didn't speak. Six thousand. Six thousand years, and the Noldor were dead. She hadn't imagined it, she hadn't. She had to tell someone –

As Lucy tried to keep her panic in check, Ecthelion helped himself to his eleventh glass of alcohol. The elf lord leaned back in his chair as the servant rushed forward to refill the carafe, tapping his slender fingers against the table top as he glared in Glorfindel's direction. His blue robes were pooled around him like water, his dark hair gathering in an inky spill across his lap. There was the slightest bit of red dusting the end of his nose and cheeks. Glorfindel studiously ignored Ecthelion's heavy gaze, tearing his too-sweet pastry into smaller bits before delicately swallowing the pieces like a fastidious golden canary. Lucy nervously fiddled with her food beside him, but didn't eat it, her feet swinging back and forth a good foot off the ground. She'd broken it. She was sure of it. She wanted to blurt everything out, all at once, but Ecthelion was there. He was Glorfindel's friend, and Lucy didn't trust him entirely. She was sure he didn't trust her either.

_Normal_ , she tried to tell herself, _just act normal, or it will break again._ Unfortunately, acting normal for Lucy consisted of picking the sweet peas off her dinner and depositing them onto Glorfindel's plate like a brat. The elf lord let her do so without complaint, simply reaching over her hands to grab his glass and take a sip of his wine. Aeloth _hmphed_ when Glorfindel didn't stop her, and Ecthelion glared harder.

"You should not spoil her," the other elf lord said, swallowing another mouthful of deep red wine. "It is bad for her constitution."

Glorfindel's gaze was hooded as he stared across the table, focusing on nothing in particular. He was definitely zoning out, Lucy decided, and she wished that he wasn't. She needed him here, and **present**.

"She will be fine." he insisted softly. Farther down Aeloth shot the elf lord an incredulous side-eye that made it clear that she didn't agree with him. Glorfindel blatantly ignored her.

Lucy understood what was being said well enough, but pretended she didn't. The more the elves underestimated her, the better off she was. The elf lord didn't stop her from spooning the sweet peas onto his plate, but his gaze did sharpen slightly when he spied her trembling hands. Glorfindel’s eyes flickered briefly to hers, probing and insistent. Lucy lowered her head to avoid his gaze, fiddling with the food still left on her plate, so he said nothing.

Ecthelion watched Glorfindel watching her, then took a heady swig of his wine before gesturing vaguely in Lucy's direction. He glared at the bottom of his empty cup as if it had personally insulted him. The ellon drank an awful lot.

"She's playing you," he warned. Lucy stiffened, her right hand clenching tightly around her fork. She wasn't playing anyone. She **wasn't**. Maybe she had been in the beginning, but this was Glorfindel, and oh god six thousand years she needed to talk to him –

"She's a child." Glorfindel insisted, parroting his old line as if it were nothing. Lucy tried to train her gaze on her plate, absently pushing her food around without eating in the hopes of making the portions look smaller. On the other side of the table, Aeloth eyed her.

"She won't be a child forever." Ecthelion countered. Glorfindel's free hand tightened around his armrest, his nails scraping slightly against the wood.

"I know." he said.

"I really don't think you do."

Aeloth leaned forward, her voice softened with concern as she spoke. "Lucy dear, what is the matter?" she asked, looking at Lucy's untouched food. "I thought you loved mushrooms."

"M'not hungry." Lucy mumbled, still staring down at her plate. She felt Glorfindel's hand come up, resting on the top of her head to smooth down her hair before he withdrew his fingers. Ecthelion watched the motion, then quickly downed the rest of his wine and motioned the servant over for more. His nose was starting to turn red.

"You are hopeless," he declared, putting the empty goblet down with more force than necessary. A servant rushed forward to refill his glass. "It is going to get you killed." Lucy went very still and pretended she wasn't listening to the conversation. _Leave,_ she thought. _Leave so I can tell him, or time will break worse._

"I will be fine." Glorfindel insisted, a slight frown marring his features. He sounded less detached than before.

"Vanyar." Ecthelion spat as he brought his wine glass to his lips. Beside Lucy, Glorfindel immediately tensed, a look of hurt crossing his features. Aeloth glared murderously at the dark-haired elf lord. "It is always those with Vanyar blood that fall." Ecthelion continued.

"You have never cared about that before." Glorfindel said, and he sounded sad. Ecthelion's cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink as he stared at his wine. Lucy decided he was drunk.

"I don't." Ecthelion agreed, and took another swig of his alcohol. "But you must admit it's true."

"It isn't."

"I wonder what Aegnor would have to say to that." Ecthelion mused darkly. Suddenly Glorfindel's attention was entirely focused on the other elf lord.

"The Prince was a good person," he said. "You should not sully his name."

"The Prince is **dead**." Ecthelion quipped, and took another sip of his wine.

"Lá, Ecthelion." Glorfindel said in Quenya. 'Humin mercarpa o hí sina." Lucy realized that for the first time since she'd met him, he was purposely switching tongues instead of falling into the other by habit. Ecthelion fell silent, but continued to stare mulishly at his drink.

"Gondolin will be fine." Glorfindel declared rather abruptly, and from the way everyone at the table tensed Lucy surmised that he'd just exposed the heart of the unspoken problem; the reason why Ecthelion seemed so upset. The elf lord was emphatic when he said it, but Lucy wanted to scream. She knew his words were a lie.

"They said the same about Brithombar and Eglarest." Ecthelion muttered, the pink flush to his cheeks even deeper. "And see how they fare now."

"We will be fine." Glorfindel insisted, and there was an almost feverish sheen to his eyes. "You should have hope."

"Hnh." Ecthelion muttered, and finished off the rest of his wine, idly studying the glass as he turned it back and forth in his hand. "I should have more wine. This is quite good."

Lucy picked miserably at her food and ate nothing.

"They found Fingon." Ecthelion said suddenly. Glorfindel perked up at this, brightening noticeably as a genuine smile split his lips. Lucy could practically feel the relief radiating off of him like the rays of the sun, intense and encompassing.

"They did?" Glorfindel said. On the other side of the table, Aearmarth and Aeloth seemed to relax as well. Ecthelion nodded wordlessly and put down his wine glass. "Good." Glorfindel said. He sounded happy, his voice shaky with relief. " **Good**. Turgon will be glad."

"Maybe." Ecthelion said, propping his cheek against his slim, milk-white hand. His words were a drawl. "It was the Fëanorians again."

Glorfindel's hand tightened noticeably against the armrest. Lucy looked over just in time to see a deer-in-the-headlights expression cross his features, his deep blue eyes going round and wide. "What?" he said, somewhat breathless. Ecthelion's lips pursed into a semi-drunken frown.

"You didn't know?" he said, and his tone was grim. "They're on the move again, their whole host. All their lands are burning."

The only thing that could be heard was the chirping of crickets; the slight _clink_ of Aeloth's fork against her plate as she delicately covered her mouth with her napkin. Glorfindel stared at nothing, his hands suddenly going limp against his arm rests.

"No." he murmured quietly, and the distant tone was back. "No, I did not know. I was… I was focused on Gondolin's borders."

Lucy wanted to scream: to warn all of them of exactly what was coming. A sick sensation wormed its way through her gut, that twisting, _ripping_ feeling in the air turning downright unbearable. They’d never talked about the war around the dinner table before, but Lucy knew it was happening, and six thousand. Six thousand years had passed, and they were all dead –

_The Fëanorians got involved with a witch. That's what started it all,_ Bilbo had said.

Lucy stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the tiles and her fork clattering against her plate. She looked down at her uneaten food, trying to stop her bottom lip from trembling. Around the table she could feel the others looking at her expectantly; she could feel the reassuring presence of Glorfindel's hand reaching out to ghost over the back of her elbow.

"Lucy?" he asked. Lucy struggled not to blurt out everything she had seen and heard right then and there. _Don't be stupid_ , she told herself, _try to do better_ , but she found it **so** hard to control her words. She didn't want to.

"I am not feeling well," she said. Her voice came out as unnaturally loud and stilted in the silence. "May I leave?"

Glorfindel's hand came to rest fully on her elbow then, a warm, reassuring weight. "Do you want me to escort you?"

At the other end of the table Lucy could feel Aeloth shooting the elf lord an unimpressed glare, and knew it was extremely rude of Glorfindel to leave his guest. She still didn't care. She had to tell him, and this would give her the chance. Lucy bit her bottom lip, nodding fugitively. Glorfindel murmured a few quiet words to Ecthelion before excusing himself to join her. Lucy followed the elf lord out of the room in silence.

Once they were in the hallway Glorfindel took her hand in his and led her the rest of the way there. Lucy let him, gripping his fingers as tightly as she could. His hand was much larger than hers, so it was awkward to try and hold on so tight, but Lucy found comfort in how the tip of his thumb rested against the pressure point on her wrist; the way his palm was a reassuring warmth against hers. Glorfindel was all white and gold in the low light of the hallway, his face turned away as they ascended the first set of stairs.

Lucy was about to blurt everything out, but the elf lord spoke first.

"If something is amiss," he began, and there was a thread of hesitance running through his tone. "I wish for you to tell me. You will do that for me, won't you? I have never… I do not like it when you are scared."

Lucy nodded and made a sound of acquiescence. For a brief moment there was a twisting sensation beneath her breastbone that had nothing to do with the breaking of time. Glorfindel was nice to her. Really, really nice. Tommy had been right, but Bilbo had said they were dead. Everything had begun with a witch.

"Are the Fëanorians bad?" she asked. There was a slight hitch to Glorfindel's steps as she did so. Even still, he didn't look back. His footsteps were silent, contrasting with the soft _pat-pat-pat_ of Lucy's slippers against the floor.

"They have done bad things." Glorfindel admitted. Lucy's door was just ahead of them. "But you should not worry. You will never meet them."

"Do they know a witch?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel **did** stop then, his free hand resting on the door handle as he turned around to face her. The elf lord loomed over her: not malevolent, but still intimidating in his staggering height and the eerie stillness of his posture. His features were made all the more alien-looking by the way the shadows danced across his face.

"What is this about, Lucy?" he asked softly. There was a deadly calm to his voice that Lucy instinctively knew was a front. She gripped the fabric on her dress with her free hand, feeling something inexplicable and insistent rising inside her. Suddenly she was blurting everything out.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Glorfindel tilted his golden head to observe her. "I'm sorry, I broke it. I will fix it, I promise." She **would**. Glorfindel was too nice to die under a balrog's whip, and he was too nice to have all his people wiped out six thousand years in the future. It would make him so sad to know the truth.

"I need the books." Lucy continued in a rush. Both her hands came up to clutch his. "I need them, to read. Can you get them for me? Something bad happens, and it gets broken. I need to change it."

Glorfindel's expression grew grim as he pushed open her door, but the hand he extricated from her grasp to place against her head was gentle.

"You are safe here." he said, running his hand down the side of her head to cup her cheek, his thumb smoothing across the skin beneath her left eye. His expression was calm, but the way his eyes darted rapidly to different points on her face made Lucy think he was looking for something specific. "Gondolin is safe. You do not need to worry." There was a delicate pause. "Ecthelion should not have talked about the war. I am sorry."

"But it's **not** safe."

"It is." Glorfindel insisted, and suddenly Lucy found herself stumbling into a quagmire that she hadn't even known existed. There had been hints of it before, she guessed; little ticks and triggers she'd picked up on in relation to his stubbornness, but had never really made a note of beyond the fact that they were consistent. Glorfindel loved Gondolin. He was attached to it, to the point of blindness. "The city is safe," the elf lord was saying. "I will make sure of it." His hand was firm against her face, his lips warm as he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"But what if you die?" Lucy said, and she felt her panic rising. She told him the truth without really meaning to. "I'm scared. I think it will break again, and you'll get hurt."

When Glorfindel leaned back the expression he gave her was one of sad bemusement, his voice utterly alien in its distance. In that moment, even though she knew he was still young by Noldor standards, Lucy realized just how old the elf was. How utterly ancient, compared to herself.

"I am Eldar." Glorfindel said, and his hand didn't leave her face. His gaze went through her, transcendent and endless. _Not human,_ Lucy thought suddenly, _never human, and you forgot that._ "I will not die, so long as you are here."

"Promise me." Lucy said. "You have to **promise**."

"I promise." Glorfindel said without hesitation. Lucy believed him. He never lied. The elf lord's hand went to her back, fingers spreading across her shoulder blade as he gently pushed her through her bedroom door.

And there on the bed, Lucy saw it. Her missing kitten; dead, skinned and bloody. There was the smell of ash on the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> All Quenya. Standard bad grammar warning applies.
> 
> Úcarala ea nwalca, Ecthelion – Do not be cruel, Ecthelion
> 
> Vá ea fintalë – Don't be foolish/tricked
> 
> Lá, Ecthelion. Humin mercarpa o hí sina – Please, Ecthelion. I do not wish (to) talk about this here


	21. Chitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised April 28, 2016

"It came for me." Lucy babbled as Aearmarth removed the cat corpse from her bed. "I told you, Glorfindel. The darkness came, and then I was gone. It knows I'm here. It talks to me. It talks to me and it gets mad when I don't talk back."

Behind them there was a soft _plunk_ as the seneschal placed the dead kitten in a bag. This was followed by the loud rustle of fabric as Aeloth stripped Lucy's sheets from her bed. Glorfindel was sitting on her dresser stool, albeit with reluctance. His back was to the mirror, his slim fingers inching towards the short sword strapped to his side. Lucy was nearly sprawled across his lap, her hands on either side of his face as she forced him to look at her.

"You believe me, don't you?" she asked, and her hysteria was mounting. "The darkness is here. It found me. You're going to get hurt."

Glorfindel's eyes were extremely blue up close. So very, very blue, like looking into a pair of polished gemstones and seeing the universe swirling inside. There were the stirrings of panic in them, the desire to get up and deal with the problem by using his sword. The only thing that seemed to be stopping him was Lucy herself, as she was leaning her full weight against him. She kept her hands on his face to make sure he was staring at her. Made sure she was looking back.

"Of course I believe you." Glorfindel said softly, and Lucy could tell he was being truthful. There was a note of placation to his voice, mingled with a strain of urgency as he curled his fingers carefully over hers and pried them off his face. "You know I believe you, _Nimeleth_. Please, I do. But this is my, I must…" He paused, his gaze shifting back and forth as he seemed to search for the right word to explain himself. "This is my home. My task to complete." Then, as if to soften the blow "It was just a kitten, Dear One. I will fix the problem soon."

Lucy didn't want him fixing anything. She didn't **want** him going anywhere. She knew she shouldn't say too much on the off chance it would make things worse, but he couldn't leave her. She had to make him see the danger.

"A balrog kills you," she blurted out. His gaze focused on her fully, then. Finally Lucy saw fear in his gaze, and a twisted sort of elation filled her. She wasn't going to let Glorfindel die like Tommy. She wasn't going to be left alone again. "Do you remember?" Lucy asked. "I told the King at the trial, and he didn't believe me. A balrog comes to Gondolin. It kills you. It kills a lot of people. Please, stay here."

From the door there was the scraping sound of a sword being rattled anxiously in its scabbard, followed by Ecthelion's voice rising up, his words sharp and angry.

"Has she talked about this before?" he demanded. "About Morgoth finding the city?" Glorfindel didn't look at him, choosing instead to meet Lucy's gaze head on.

"No." he said, his fingers tightening around hers even as he removed them from his face. His tone was eerily calm. "Not often. She has been good."

It was a front. Lucy knew it was a front, even as he stood and pushed her back, placing one hand atop her head in reassurance. Lucy clutched at it, leaning into his chest. Outside, there was a cacophony of chirping crickets. The moon had begun to rise over the edge of the encircling mountains.

"Laurëfindil, if she has been speaking of the Dark Lord, you have to take her back to the King." Ecthelion was saying. He continued pacing in the doorway, even as Aearmarth retreated past him with dead cat in hand. "You must, you understand? That was the deal."

Lucy didn't look at him directly, nor did she question this _deal_ they were discussing. Instead she focused all her attention on Glorfindel, pawing at his front with an insistent hand. He couldn't leave her. He wouldn't. The thing was **here**. 

"Glorfindel." she pleaded. "Glorfindel, you can't go." She wasn't above throwing a tantrum to keep him with her. The elf lord sighed and used his free hand to capture hers, his long fingers wrapping around her palm to still it.

"I must." he insisted, and there was a firmness building in his voice. "It is nothing, you understand? I will be back soon. You must wait here with the guards. Aeloth, too."

"Laurëfindil," Ecthelion began angrily, stepping forward, but Glorfindel immediately cut him off.

"She **hasn't**." he said. He looked over Lucy's head towards the other elf lord. The calm was gone, and his fear was apparent. There was a slight tremble to his voice. "You will say nothing, understand? She has been good, I swear it."

"She's _his_ creature."

"Mo se!" Glorfindel snapped in Quenya, and suddenly his tone was desperate, his hand darting out and grasping Lucy's collar as if to keep her from being dragged away. "Mo se, ar úvaldë maparya niva. Lá."

"I told you," Ecthelion insisted, striding into Glorfindel's space and staring at him head on. He still sounded slightly drunk, and there remained the faintest flush of pink to his cheeks. "I **told** you that it was a bad idea to bring her here. But did anyone listen to me? No, no one ever does. Just like they did not listen about those cursed ships –" 

Quickly Glorfindel stepped between them, pushing Lucy behind him and blocking the other ellon’s path.

"Mo se." he repeated. He was holding himself so taut that Lucy was sure he would break. "Please, don't tell them. I will do it myself. It is just a cat –"

"Glorfindel, you can't go." Lucy began, tugging on his sleeve. "It's here." 

"It is not _just a cat_!" Ecthelion spat. Lucy flinched when he raised his voice to a yell. The elf leaned forward, making to grab for Glorfindel's collar, but the ellon slapped his hand away and turned his head to the side, his body language screaming avoidance. 

"Do **not** ignore me." Ecthelion insisted. He refused to be dissuaded, even when Aeloth began to protest behind him in Quenya. "I am sick to death of being ignored. And do **not** pretend to misunderstand what I am speaking about. I have known you for far too long, and I will not –"

There was the sudden groaning creak of Lucy's heavy door being opened, then the jangle of chainmail as one of Glorfindel's guards leaned sideways to peer inside. His blond hair was familiar somehow, and it took Lucy a moment to realize that it was the Captain of the Guard, Caragduin. She hadn't seen him in ages.

"We've found something." he said simply, his expression blank and his voice even, but the eyes behind his golden mask were hard. Ecthelion made a _tch_ sound with his tongue and immediately turned on his heel, stalking out of the room in a swirl of blue and long black hair. Almost immediately Glorfindel followed, freeing himself from Lucy's grasp despite her protests. He pushed her towards Aeloth. 

"Watch her." he said, not looking back. Then he was gone. Lucy was utterly indignant. For a moment her outrage outweighed her fear. By the time it cooled however, the door was clicking shut, and she realized she was trapped. Inside there was no one left but her, Aeloth, and one of the guards. The panic returned full force.

"No!" she cried, throwing off Aeloth's hand and rushing forward to try and unlock the door. It did her absolutely no good. She pounded on the wood for a minute or two, and when the guards in the hallway refused to open it, Lucy resorted to pacing anxiously back and forth. The chilly night air was causing goose bumps to rise along her arms, her skirt and slippers swishing over the rug-strewn floor. By the wall her dolls stared at her with dead eyes, the starlight reflecting eerily off their bone white faces. The harp sitting in the corner of her room looked like a collection of boiled ribs.

She had to escape. She had to find the books. Lucy was trapped though, and for the first time in almost half a year she realized how little agency she possessed. Glorfindel was an elf, and would remain loyal to his own kind. Elves were also much, much bigger than her, and infinitely more lethal. If she tried to run they'd catch her within minutes. And even if she **did** manage to escape, Lucy had no way to survive on her own. The creature was still out there, along with the Smoke Man. The sensation of being caged was terrifying. 

"Child," Aeloth said, reaching for her with gentle hands. Lucy shook her off and continued pacing. "Child, there is nothing wrong. We will get you another cat."

Lucy didn't want another cat. She wanted Glorfindel. She wanted someone who would believe her. "Where's Morwen?" she asked, grasping at leads. "I want to talk to her."

Aeloth's expression was one of mild frustration. "Morwen is ill." The elleth said, folding her hands together. "We are taking care of her."

"You are bad at taking care of people." Lucy snapped. Her pacing grew more frantic as the tightness beneath her breastbone deepened. "I remember what happened in the dungeons. You aren't _Edain_. You don't know how to fix us. I want to see Morwen."

"Tomorrow, child. Come, sit down. Not on the bed – your stool, perhaps?"

Lucy ignored her and kept pacing. 

There was nothing for hours. No additional movement except for that in the hallway; no noise inside save for the loud rustle of Lucy's skirts. Twice more she tried to break free, once through the window and the other through the door. Both times she was stopped, either by Aeloth or the guard that had been stationed with them, who refused to talk to her directly under any circumstance. Glorfindel didn't come back, and Lucy decided that even if it **was** a small problem, like Aeloth said, she couldn't stand the waiting. The lingering was physically painful, and the not-knowing-what-was-happening-to-him was even worse.

Briefly, Lucy’s memories regressed to a previous conversation she'd had with Tommy, about the bloody legacy of the First Age. If war came to Gondolin, she would be left behind, she realized. The elves would go and fight, and Glorfindel would definitely be among them. Probably Maeglin, too.

Oh god, she couldn't bear it. She couldn't even stand the thought.

"Let me out!" Lucy shrieked, rushing forward and pounding on the door in terror. Aeloth sighed and murmured something to the guard in Quenya, and a moment later Lucy felt him put a firm hand on her arm as he began to pull her back. She tried to shake him off, grasping the handle in desperation, but he simply reached down and picked her up off the ground; carrying her away as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes.

"Let me go!" Lucy wailed, but he didn't, even when she reached for his helmet in an effort to yank it off and go for his ears. "Let me go, I need to – something bad will happen, I have to – Glorfindel, make them stop!" But Glorfindel wasn't there.

When the guard put her down, Aeloth stepped close and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, but immediately Lucy tried to throw her off. She couldn't stay still. She **wouldn't**. 

"Lucy," Aeloth chided, but Lucy refused to be dissuaded. She made a wordless sound of frustration as she slapped the elleth's hand away. Aeloth was just as stubborn. "Lucy, you must calm yourself." she insisted, her tone growing harder. "Take the blanket, child. It is getting cold –"

"No," Lucy said as she struggled. "No, no, I don't want it, it's not safe –"

"Of course it is, child."

"I want to go with them!"

"Laurëfindil has said you are to stay here."

"Glorfindel's not here anymore!" 

"He is the Lord of this Estate." Aeloth insisted, and her words were icy. "You will listen to him."

"Not **my** lord," Lucy said with a sneer, and she couldn't help it. When she was angry and upset, she tended to lash out. "He's never been my lord. I'm **human**."

Like a snake Aeloth's hand whipped out and grasped her by the jaw. Her pale fingers dug in so hard they left sharp grooves in her skin. Lucy cried out, trying to dislodge her, but despite her slender appearance the elleth's grip was firm. Her grey blue eyes were coldly furious, and if she'd been a different sort of person, Lucy was sure the elf would've slapped her.

"Laurëfindil has sacrificed much for you." Aeloth said calmly, but there was a visible sort of rage simmering beneath the surface. "Too much, and he continues to do so. He is your lord, but he wishes nothing but the best for you. You belong to the House of the Golden Flower now, you understand? You are not going back to the Edain."

"But they're my **people**."

"Not anymore!" Aeloth snapped.

Then Lucy felt it. A tightening beneath her breastbone, a twisting sensation she knew all too well. Time was shifting again, and she was in danger. Lucy bolted, straight for the window.

She didn't think about it, really, or even consider what might come next. All she knew was that she had to leave, and she had to leave now. She slapped Aeloth's hand away and ducked under the elleth's arm, scrabbling across the floor. The elf let out a shout and made to grab her, but missed; probably because both she and the guard had thought that Lucy was making another pass at the door. 

_Run_ , Lucy thought, _run faster._ Her window came up all too quickly, and it was only when her foot was hanging in midair and she felt the drop in her stomach that Lucy thought _oh_ , and wondered how bad the impact would be. Then there was a jerking sensation, and she was being yanked violently backwards by the guard, who had his hand fisted in her collar.

"Lucy!" Aeloth exclaimed, rushing forward. Her expression – in that brief moment that Lucy saw it – was as animated as it had ever been. "Lucy, why would you do that?!" There was fear in Aeloth’s voice, mingled with anger. For a moment Lucy just hung there in the guard's hands, letting him drag her back as the reality of the situation sunk in. Then the twisting sensation became a _ripping_ , and Lucy gasped, because she’d felt this particular sensation before. She had. **It** was here.

"No." she moaned. She started struggling like her life depended on it, twisting in the guard's grasp and begging incoherently as she fought to break free. "No, no, no! Please, let me go, it's here, it's coming for me, it's coming, please, let me go –"

"Hold her still." Aeloth muttered in Sindarin, withdrawing a small silver bottle from a hidden pocket on the front of her dress. Immediately Lucy recognized it for what it was, and knew the elleth wanted to put her under. She struggled harder, kicking her feet and shrieking as Aeloth reached for her face, but the guard held her still.

"No. No," she begged in English, then in broken Sindarin. "No, please stop. I'll be good –"

"Shh, child." Aeloth crooned. Even though her tone was calm, there was a tightness around her eyes that spoke of frustration. "It is for the best. You are hysterical."

"No, please, I'm not. It's **here** –"

"You will be fine." she demurred. Lucy turned her head away as the elf tried to bring the bottle to her lips. "Lucy, you must drink it."

"No."

" **Lucy**."

Lucy jerked her head to escape the elleth's grasp, craning her neck back. As she did so she saw the creature from the dungeons clinging to her ceiling, clicking its teeth and hanging upside down like a bat.

Lucy didn't have time for a coherent response. She screamed as loud as she could.

Aeloth followed her gaze. When she spotted the creature she cried out in turn. The elleth dropped the bottle. The guard cursed and pushed Lucy away. _I found you_ , the voice crooned, and Lucy sobbed. The creature trilled.

It took less than a minute for it to attack. Everything in that time was chaos.

Down from the ceiling the creature came, clambering limb over limb as it strafed across the bedposts like a giant albino spider. When it dropped from the canopy to land heavily on the mattress, Lucy moaned and scrambled away, but the creature was huge and fast and so very strong, and she couldn't outrun it. _Chit-chit-chittt_ went its teeth as it clicked them rapidly together, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed its way across the bed.

Lucy screamed again, and Aeloth screamed with her, darting to the side to pick up the stool and throw it at the creature. It remained undeterred. Within seconds the guard was drawing his sword and rushing forward.

"Lucy, get down!" Aeloth cried, but there was no more _down_ to go to. She was trapped between the bed and the sealed door. The fingers that reached for her were twice as long as any elf's, and as the monster clambered towards her it continued to click its teeth. When its fingers snagged in her sleeve, Lucy flailed backwards. She fell to the floor, hitting her elbow and crying out in pain as she tried to pull away.

The creature was practically on top of her, crawling on all fours off the bed as it wrapped its fingers around her ankle and **squeezed**. Lucy heard her bones break with a sharp _snap_. She shrieked. Suddenly the pain didn't matter so much as the terror. Lucy kicked with her other leg, trying to break free. Its hand was cold to the point of burning. Her flesh where it gripped her was cracking like ice beneath a mallet, spider web veins running along her calf.

"Lucy!" Aeloth cried. She rushed forward, trying to pull the creature off, but all it did was flick its free arm in her direction and the elleth went flying, soaring across the room and hitting the closet door with a _thunk_. She fell in a boneless heap and lay still.

The guard raised his sword and brought it down in the same moment, but the creature ducked his swipe like water and let out a chittering hiss.

"GLORFINDEL!" Lucy screamed, but he didn't come. He didn't hear her. She sobbed and tried to drag herself away. It didn’t work.

The pain was blinding as the creature tugged her towards it. As it did so a long pink tongue emerged from between its lips like an over-sized, fleshy worm. Even in the dim light of the lamps that hung from her ceiling, Lucy could see the blood on its face, black like oil in the darkness. She thought of her kitten, all red and skinned. She thought of what those teeth could do to her, and screamed harder. Kicking the creature in the face with her other foot, Lucy twisted around and tried to scrabble across the tiles. The monster gave her broken ankle one sharp jerk – so hard her foot turned sideways – and Lucy nearly blacked out from the pain. The only thing that kept her going was the terror.

_Not here_ , she thought furiously. _Not like this._ But this **was** her end, and the creature was going to kill her. There was a loud _bang_ as her doors were thrown open, but all Lucy could do was think about the six inches of floor in front of her, and how she could use it to escape.

She reached out, trying to grab the leg of her dresser to pull herself up, but the monster’s grip was too strong. All it took was another good tug to send the table toppling over with the force of its pull. The dresser went down in a clatter of jewellery and half-lit candles, golden bits of polished glitter scattering across the floor. Lucy scrabbled amongst the pieces, searching for something to defend herself with. There was nothing.

_Not now,_ she thought, _no,_ **_please_** _._ But the creature didn't care. Glorfindel still didn't hear her. 

"Heca, saura eredh o Morgoth!" someone shouted, and above them there was the _shing_ of a sword slicing through the air. The creature ducked again. _Don't fight it_ , someone crooned in her ear, but Lucy did. A guard tried to throw the creature off, but when it refused to budge he swung his sword around in a graceful arc to try and severe its head. The blade merely got stuck in its flesh.

Almost languidly, the sword still in its neck, the monster turned, reaching up and ripping off the ellon's head with its free hand. The body dropped with a _thud_ , blood spray in the air, and Lucy knew. She knew she was doomed. There was no escape this time.

The despair set in. 

"NO!" she screamed, kicking with her free foot. "NO, STOP!" The second guard rushed forward, and the creature grabbed the elf by the front of his tunic and threw him bodily against the wall. For a second it loosened its hold on her. Before Lucy could think the action through she was turning, snivelling and sobbing hard as she dragged herself across the floor on her stomach. Behind her there was a wet squelching sound as the second guard's head came off with a _pop_ ; the click of the creature’s nails as it began to clamber after her. Lucy crawled faster.

"No." she sobbed as she felt the creature turn around; she felt the ground shake beneath its weight as it began crawling **over** her, hovering with splayed limbs. It lowered its head and sniffed at her hair, clicking its teeth beside her ear. "No, no, no. Please, no –"

Long fingers gripped the back of her neck like the scruff of her now-dead kitten, turning her over and pulled her towards it mouth. Its hand was on her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. Then Lucy saw nothing but white and felt nothing but fire as it sunk its teeth into her throat and **tore**.

Needles into flesh, they were, like scissors rapidly snipping through sinew and skin. Lucy tried to scream, but there was something warm and wet clogging her throat. Suddenly the blood was everywhere and the creature was severing her jugular. _Don't squirm_ , the voice in her head said, but Lucy did. Her hands beat ineffectually against the monster, her fingers scrabbling against its shoulder. There was nothing to grab onto, and nothing to shield herself with. Silverfish swam across her field of vision, like specks of light floating amongst billions of stars. They were beautiful, those flashes of color, but there were no stars here. Only the red and the eating. Lucy could feel teeth grinding against her bones, the thickness of fluid building in her throat. She didn't want to die.

_You gave me no choice,_ the voice said, and it almost sounded petulant in that moment. _You should have come to me sooner._

"UI!" someone screamed, but their voice sounded muffled. There was a ringing sensation in Lucy's ears. Then she felt a jerking motion, and the teeth were being ripped from her neck. The jaws opened. The hand tangled in her hair was severed at the wrist with a sword.

Lucy fell, dropping to the floor like a bloody gamine doll. She coughed at the impact and choked on her blood, and felt, rather than saw, the creature thrashing above her. There was the furious scream of something in unintelligible Quenya, the hiss of the monster as it held its mangled arm to its chest and hunkered low. The creature was lumbering and sinuous, over nine feet tall but as lithe as an elf. It let off a high, piercing wail as it threw itself towards whatever was stabbing it, only to rear back on its hind legs and charge again, picking up its smaller opponent and slamming them into the opposite wall. The stone cratered on impact, and there was a flash of gold.

_Glorfindel_ , Lucy tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle of blood and saliva. There was red everywhere she looked, and her vision was filled with stars.

From somewhere behind her she heard the muffled _patter_ of footsteps: more chainmail ringing, followed by the sharp _shing_ of steel being drawn from its scabbard. A slender foot with a narrow ankle came down beside her face. Moments later Ecthelion was picking her up and dragging her towards the door. His curving sword was held in his other hand.

"My city," he was snarling under his breath. "My city, **my** city, you will not take it from me –"

There was a shout, followed by a queer, reverberation echo rippling across the room. Ecthelion looked up with an expression of horror, before he dropped Lucy and rushed towards the fray.

"LAURËFINDIL, STOP!" he cried. Glorfindel didn't. 

For a moment, Lucy saw him. She saw a flash of golden hair as Glorfindel rose about the crest of the creature's bony shoulder. She saw his face, pale and splattered with blood. The ellon whipped his short sword around in an arc, cutting into the creature's outstretched arm and severing it at the shoulder. Then he cut into it again, and again, and Lucy saw the monster stagger. Glorfindel's eyes were glowing, blazing bright as stars in the dark.

The creature screamed. When it did the elf lord screamed too. As if a bomb had gone off the room immediately _shattered_ under the force of the sound wave, glass breaking and wood splintering. The wall ruptured behind him, fragments of marble scattering through the air.

The creature stumbled, turning away, and in that moment Glorfindel sliced through its neck with such force that the head went flying. Then there was black blood absolutely everywhere, a body tumbling to the ground. Glorfindel was still screaming, however, and **screaming** , his eyes glowing blue as he dropped his sword and clutched at his head. Ecthelion rushed past the monster, and in the same instant he was reaching out and striking the other ellon across the face, so hard he stumbled backwards. In her haze all Lucy could think was _oh_. Glorfindel killed balrogs for a living, so of course he'd be dangerous because of that. She’d simply forgotten that he could. Then she was filled with a singular, unifying thought of _pain_ , and she didn't ponder over him after that. She blacked out for a time, or maybe it was only a few seconds, because she was bleeding out and the void was getting closer.

As if through a fog Lucy heard the clatter of furniture being pushed aside. She felt slim hands sliding beneath her before one of them clamped down on her neck. Someone was shaking her awake, saying her name, over and over again.

Her whole face feeling heavy, Lucy opened her eyes and stared upwards, only to realize they'd already been open and she hadn't been focusing. There was gold there, hovering over her; pale skin splattered with blood as long fingers pressed themselves into the gaping wound on the side of her neck. A pair of glowing cobalt eyes were watching her.

"Lucy, Lucy, darcoiva. Darcoiva, lá, lá, darcoiva –" Glorfindel was chanting hysterically in Quenya, but she couldn't make heads or tails of it. It was so hard to stay awake. "Lucy, **please**." the elf lord begged, his hand shaking against her neck. Glorfindel was immortal, though, and Lucy wasn't. There were no second chances for humans who bled out. The specs of light swimming in her vision looked like stars. If she stared into the elf lord's eyes, she could see the universe inside them, the synaptic pathways and binary explosions of a cosmos that had yet to be birthed. He was made of the universe. He **was** the universe. Lucy was sure of it.

Then, all was darkness. Time lost meaning and broke apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> All Quenya. Standard bad grammar warning applies.
> 
> Mo se – She's mine/one
> 
> Mo se, ar úvaldë maparya niva. Lá – She's mine, and you will not take her from me. Please
> 
> Heca, saura eredh o Morgoth – Be gone, foul seed of Morgoth
> 
> Ui – No
> 
> Lucy, Lucy, darcoiva. Darcoiva, lá, lá, darcoiva – Lucy, Lucy, stay awake. Stay awake, please, please, stay awake


	22. Death Rattle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 4, 2016

She was in a haze for a time.

Lucy drifted in the darkness, and it was murky: not really black, but not quite gray either. There was no ground and no sky, no warmth and no light. There was a vapor all around her, though, clinging to everything like a second skin. When her thoughts came back to her, slow and creeping like the tasteless fog, she thought this must be what purgatory was like.

"No." said a voice, deep and rumbling. "Purgatory is like the void. This, this is _changing_."

In the darkness, Lucy saw him sitting there. She saw the Smoke Man emerge from the vapors as if he were made of them; long arms with long fingers draped over cocked knees, his slender legs stretched out before him. There was no sound in the void, except for his voice. No music either, except for a single sour note. It was plucked over and over again, like the last remaining string on a lyre. His eyes glowed molten orange in the dark.

"Your song is sad." Lucy told him. She didn't understand _why_. The man laughed at that, his shoulders shaking as he tilted his head back, his brassy voice rumbling like the boom of thunder. It sunk into Lucy's bones, straight to the marrow.

"My song?" he drawled, lowering his head. "What do you know of The Music, you insignificant speck of sand? You **have** no music. You're not even a child of Illúvatar. Your song is dead."

"That's your fault." Lucy told him bluntly. She could feel him sneer, and watched as his fingers twitched against his knees before they clenched.

"My fault?" the man said. "But you left me no choice. I had to send the _baramog_. I called for months, and you did not answer. I offered my hand, and you did not take it." He paused, tilting his head in contemplation. "It was that Vanya – the false one. He interrupted my song. When I find the city, I will kill him. I will make you watch."

Lucy thought back and remembered the voice, deep like a bell but with the sensation of sandpaper constantly rubbing against her ear.

"That was you?" she asked. Lucy felt the man grin in the darkness; she felt his delight curling around her like a living creature, flames licking at her thighs and traveling across her arms.

"Always, my Starless Shadow. We are both born of dark matter, floating in the void."

A thought occurred to her then, and Lucy looked in his general direction, peering into the gloom as she floated closer still. She had a body here, but no mass. It was a strange sensation.

"Is your name Morgoth?" she asked. The smoke man leaned forward to meet her, vapors clinging to his shoulders and whispering around his neck. Lucy saw a pale face, beautiful and alien. She saw hair of molten fire, dripping into the darkness like cooling magma. Full lips curled into a seductive smile, eyes without pupils glowing bright. He raised an eerily long finger to his lips, using the universal sign for silence.

"No." he demurred. "I am not so great as that, yet. But when we meet in person, you will keep our conversations from my master, yes? It is good to keep our cards close to our chest, and the Noldor are still watching."

"What **is** your name, then?"

"Mairon." he crooned. The word was rich like velvet, rolling off his tongue. "Although, I have not been called that for some time. Our names are taken from us when we fall."

"But I **want** to say your name."

Mairon put a hand to her forehead, palm flat. His skin was warm to the point of burning. The eyes that gazed at her were utterly hypnotic. Lucy couldn't look away.

" _Annatar_ will do, I suppose. And you shall need a new name as well. _Thuringwethil_ , perhaps?" he said, laughing softly if enjoying some private joke. "You remind me of her."

"I like Mairon better." Lucy insisted. The stranger's soft chuckle turned into a throaty, full-fledged laugh. His eyes were bright, his full lips curling into a brilliant smile.

"Mairon it is, then." he agreed, and he couldn't stop laughing. "Oh, The Children. How they'll **hate** you for that."

"I'll remember you when I wake up." Lucy said fiercely. She felt like she had to say it. There was a queer sensation around her, as if the darkness was suddenly getting heavier. Mairon-turned-Annatar grinned like a Cheshire cat. His hand was warm against her forehead.

"You won't wake up." he said with surety. "And even if you do, you will not remember this." There was a pause, and in the darkness his smile was languid. There was fire between his teeth, the hint of a promise upon his lips. "Who would have thought, to get their hands on a prophet? Illúvatar smiles upon us all, I suppose."

Then there was nothing. The resounding emptiness of time. The absence of stars in dark space.

* * *

Lucy did wake, once. It wasn't really waking, because when she opened her eyes she wasn't exactly conscious. Even afterwards she only remembered the incident in bits and pieces, as if it were a dream.

Out of the blackness she jerked to life on a bed; gasping as her spine contorted into a perfect bow while she screamed in agony and clawed at the covers, struggling against the leather straps that had been tied around her wrists. An army of elves stood over her, reaching forward with frantic hands to prod at reopened wounds. There was the sensation of _ripping_ beneath her skin, of something larger than herself swimmingly lazily along her bloodstream.

_Too small,_ the alien presence decided, sounding mildly disappointed. _You are such a tiny thing._

Lucy caught flashes of people whom she thought were familiar. Limbrethil, perhaps, and the doctor-elf from the dungeons; a woman with long blond hair that might have been Idril, and Morwen standing in a corner, eyes wide as she hunched inwards and put a hand over her mouth in horror. Above it all there was a familiar presence, Glorfindel's melodic voice speaking next to her ear as he held her down. His golden hair was tumbling across the covers.

"Lucy." he said. "Lucy, it is alright." When she finally managed to focus on his face, Lucy realized his expression was distraught. She arched towards him in pain, her back bowing so badly her bones cracked. Glorfindel tried to stop her thrashing by wrapping his arms around her.

"It hurts." she gasped, and she could feel her body drying out like a husk. The spot where the creature had bit her was burning, and she was soaked in sweat to the point where her gown was translucent. The leather straps were digging into her arms. "Glorfindel, it hurts. Make it stop!"

"Hold her still," someone muttered, but Lucy couldn't see who it was.

"Ai Elbereth," Glorfindel choked out, and there was a furious sort of despair to his words as he pushed her back onto the bed. "I will kill him. I will. I promise."

And suddenly it wasn't _Lucy_ anymore. It was that thing in her bloodstream, and she was speaking without meaning to. The voice that issued from her lips wasn't her own.

_"You."_ she drawled in Quenya, only the words were twisted somehow. The elves were reeling back and covering their ears in pain, all except Glorfindel, who remained where he was; holding her down and biting his bottom lip so hard it bled. As the voice rolled across the room, red began leaking from his ears.

_"Vanya-mimic."_ Lucy heard herself sneer, except Lucy was dead now. A puppet on strings, the husk of a corpse. _"You should not have interfered. I have no time for worms."_

"No." Glorfindel ground out, and his eyes were glowing again, the room around them darkening as it crackled with thunder. "No. Let her go –"

Lucy felt her lips curl into a smile. _"This one does not belong to you, anymore. I will burn your city to the ground."_

Then the elf lord was being pushed aside, and the **King** was there, grasping her chin between his fingers as he stared at her in a cold, righteous fury. Turgon was beautiful and terrifying in that moment, but the thought that coursed through Lucy's head was not one of awe, but of disgust.

_Noldor. How I hate them,_ the creature said.

"Begone, _Maia_." the King spat. "You have no place here."

And the parasite inside Lucy's head laughed. It cackled and howled, and Lucy laughed with it, twisting her body into knots beneath his hands as the fire burned through her blood in a wave.

_"I do not take orders from The **Children**."_ It said, using Lucy's mouth and Lucy's tongue. The smile was there, growing larger. _"Tell me, Little King, what mountain range does this city inhabit?"_

"You will not have Gondolin. I will kill her before you do." Turgon declared. Immediately Glorfindel cried out and rushed forward, but before he could reach them he was tackled to the floor.

"No!" he gasped. "No, please!"

"I will kill her!" Turgon insisted, and the leather straps around Lucy's wrists strained and stretched.

_"You won't."_ the parasite said between fits of laughter. _"Only a fool would kill a seer."_ Then the straps were breaking like brittle twigs, and Lucy was lunging forward with a strength that was not her own. The King stumbled backwards, but already she was grabbing Turgon's neck between her fingers, squeezing hard. The Noldo prince began to choke.

_"Tell me, Little King."_ Lucy crooned, her face inches from his. _"Where is this city?"_ Turgon's eyes were wide with terror, his larger fingers scrabbling against her own. " _If you don't,"_ she warned. _"Your brother will be next. I will rip those golden braids from his head."_

Suddenly someone pulled her back, their hands wrapping around her waist as she kicked and snarled and screamed. It was Glorfindel. For a brief, blinding second, Lucy was filled with clarity. With the knowledge of what was swimming inside her.

_Oh god._

"Mairon." she gasped, arching into Glorfindel's shoulder as he dragged her back to the bed. "Mairon, I see you. I **remember**."

But she didn't. Lucy blacked out after that.

* * *

When she finally woke up, days later, Lucy hurt all over. She couldn't move at first.

The fever from the creature's bite had raged through her system worse than any sickness that had come before it, and for a moment all she could recall was the pain that the poison had brought. She remembered being drenched in sweat and twisting beneath the covers; a pair of familiar hands stroking her face as someone begged her to wake up. The fever was gone now, but the weakness wasn't. When she discovered she couldn't move her arms, she briefly wondered if they'd been forced to amputate them. Then, Lucy felt the twitch of a finger. There was something cold around her wrist, and her ankle was splinted.

Slowly, she cracked her eyes open one millimeter at a time, blinking fitfully against the daylight as consciousness returned to her. Everywhere she felt achy, and her senses were dull and sluggish. Lucy couldn't see where the light was coming from, as she was lying on her back, but above her there was an unfamiliar ceiling. The bed she was lying on had an unfamiliar texture. The covers were too heavy, the pillows too soft.

_Turn your head,_ Lucy thought. _You have to._

Finally she did, her hair tangling around her face and her eyes feeling gummy from too much sleep. For a brief moment she registered certain details of the room: the floor length windows lining the walls, a desk in the corner and gauzy curtains wafting on the breeze. _Glorfindel's room,_ she thought belatedly. She'd only been there once before, but Lucy recognized enough of it to know it was where she'd been taken.

Then her gaze landed on the elf lord himself, sitting by the bed. He was crying. Lucy forgot about the room after that.

She'd never seen Glorfindel cry. Lucy had seen him panic before – she’d seen him turn cold and pale under the weight of his own anxiety – but never shed a tear. He was leaning against the bed, his elbows braced atop the covers and one hand resting on his forehead. His eyes were glassy looking as he stared out at nothing, a devastated expression gracing his features. Moisture was trailing down either cheek, but he didn't seem to be conscious of it. Lucy had never seen him look paler.

"'findel." she slurred, and he didn't move. Glorfindel’s just sat there crying, not even blinking once. The elf lord's face didn't get red when he cried, like a human's would, and his tears were crystalline. Lucy remembered, then; she remembered the way he'd hacked the creature to pieces with frenetic zeal, shattering stone walls with the force of his screaming. How he'd held her, his fingers **inside** her neck, pinching her jugular to keep her from bleeding out. Her name, repeated over and over again. _Please, Lucy. Lucy, Lucy stay awake._

The way he held himself was brittle.

"Laurëfindil." she said more firmly, using his real name without meaning to. He shuddered, his eyelashes sweeping downwards as he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was staring into space.

"I thought I lost you again." he whispered. His shoulders began hunching inwards in an overtly defensive gesture. There was a haunted air about him, and Lucy saw the faintest traces of blood crusting his ears. She wondered what it was from.

"But I'm not dead." she said, and she didn't understand why he began crying harder. Soon she was awake enough to hear the trilling of birds outside his window. Inside the elf lord's room, however, nothing stirred. Lucy didn't think Glorfindel could. The mask seemed to be utterly shattered, and beneath it there was nothing but the delicate shards of an alien psyche she couldn't make heads or tails of. Elvish pain was strange to her: familiar but not, and seemingly a thousand times worse. It physically hurt to see him so miserable.

"Why are you crying?" Lucy asked, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. Glorfindel slumped against the bed, as if her words had knocked all the energy right out of him.

"Do you remember it?" he said. Lucy thought back, and realized there were blanks. Dark spaces, where nothing dwelt except the shadows of time.

"The creature attacked me." she said slowly. For a moment she thought Glorfindel was upset over that. Then he said "and after?" Lucy couldn't remember. The elf lord cried harder.

"Where's Aeloth?" Lucy asked, thinking that maybe the elleth had died.

"Recovering." he mumbled, still crying.

"And the creature?"

"We burnt its corpse."

"Are you lonely?" Lucy said. The thought occurred to her in a drugged sort of stupor. She didn't know why she said it because it was kind of obvious that he was. Glorfindel's lips twisted into a grimace as the tears rolled down his cheeks, his eyes shutting tight. His hand trembled against his forehead.

" **I'm** lonely." Lucy continued, not expecting him to answer. It was one of the most truthful things she'd said in years. "For a long time, I’ve been lonely. I want to go home."

"I am so sorry, Nimeleth." the elf lord choked out. "I did not mean to – it is my fault. My fault. You told me to stay. Ai Elbereth, I am so sorry. You must forgive me for what will happen. I was selfish." Lucy didn't think Glorfindel **could** be selfish, but reasoned that maybe elves had different standards for this sort of thing.

"Because you're lonely?" she said in a quieter voice. The elf lord hid his face behind his hands, his golden hair tumbling across the bed.

"Yes." he whispered hoarsely. Glorfindel was so brittle that Lucy couldn't stand it. She reached for him then, but her arms were too weak. She could barely lift her hand.

"'findel." she implored, her fingers inching across the covers. He lowered his hands from his face, although he still didn't look at her. "Glorfindel, help me up."

Lucy watched as he used the flat of his palm to wipe the tears from his eyes, and then in an oddly fragile gesture the elf lord stood, his stool scraping awkwardly across the floor. His tunic was rumpled and splattered in blood, and was the same one that he'd been wearing the night of the attack. Lucy felt the familiar pressure of Glorfindel's fingers sliding beneath her shoulders, cradling her close. Then she was upright, the elf lord's arm going around her back. It was only then that Lucy saw it: a pair of thin silver shackles around her left wrist, inscribed with a strange sort of Tengwar. The inside of the bracelet was burnt black, and for some reason there was ash on her wrist.

"Glorfindel," she slurred. "Why am I chained?" Lucy felt him draw her close. She felt him press his lips to her forehead, his arm tightening around her back.

"It is nothing, Dear One. Ignore it."

Lucy hung there limply for a moment, because even though she was finally upright she had no energy to do so. Glorfindel didn't move again – he merely waited by the edge of the bed, cradling her like glass – so Lucy gestured for him to shuffle closer. To move his head down so she could reach it.

"Closer." she mumbled. "I want a hug."

"I do not know what _hug_ is." he said, his voice cracking over the English word. Lucy was too tired to figure out the Sindarin equivalent, so she merely used his tunic to pull herself upwards. Her wrist beneath the shackle itched, but her mind felt empty. There was darkness between the cracks.

When Glorfindel realized what she was looking for, he leaned down obligingly, drawing her further against his chest and hoisting her up so she could flop bonelessly against his shoulder. Lucy did so gratefully, and once she was settled she wrapped her arms around his neck in a loose approximation of an embrace. He smelt like blood, but that was okay. He was still Glorfindel, and Lucy was just happy that he was there, alive and breathing. There were no balrogs. Not yet.

"Are you in pain?" Glorfindel asked tremulously. Lucy could tell from the hoarse quality of his voice that he was still crying. He seemed unable to stop. Lucy shook her head, wrapping her arms more firmly around his neck.

"No." she mumbled. "Here is good." The elf lord reached up, the backs of his fingers tentatively running across her cheek before traveling over to brush away a stray lock of her unbound hair.

"You are sure?" he said. Lucy nodded before blindly reaching up and feeling for his face. She patted his cheek in comfort. The gesture was clumsy.

"Glorfindel, don't be sad." she told him seriously. "I want to stay with you forever." But it only made him cry harder. Lucy couldn't see the ellon directly because of their position, but she could feel his tears in the way he slumped against her, convulsing with the force of his sobs. His hand shook against her head, before he was holding her impossibly tight and burying his face in the crook of her neck as he rocked the two of them back and forth. Outside, the sun was shining bright.

"Glorfindel?" Lucy asked, suddenly very, very alarmed by how upset he was. "Glorfindel, what's wrong?"

"Inyë samsinwa." he gasped in broken Quenya, before switching to Sindarin, the words tumbling from his mouth in a rush. "Forgive me." he sobbed. "Please forgive me. I will not let them kill you. I swear it. I will take your place."

It took a moment for his words to register.

"What do you mean _you won't let them kill me?_ " Lucy asked, but he didn't answer. Her shackle felt cold against her wrist.

* * *

"Do you understand me?"

The King's voice was cold as he sat across from her surrounded by his royal guards, his gray eyes hard and bright. Lucy hadn't seen him in a long, long time, and she wasn't at her best on top of that. It had been barely two weeks since the attack, but even though she was healing unusually fast, she was still unable to walk due to her splinted ankle and the ghastly wound on her neck. When the King entered the room, she was dressed in her nightgown and swaddled in blankets, propped up by the pillows on Glorfindel's bed.

Lucy nodded _yes_ , even though she was having a hard time concentrating. There was a ring of bruising around the King's neck that was particularly distracting: discoloration in the shape of small, child-like hands where someone had dug in hard. The guards had their swords drawn, and were dressed in heavy armour. They were looking at her like she was an orc.

"Where is the creature?" Lucy asked. The King stiffened, his upper lip curling in distaste as if he had not expected her to speak. Still, he answered.

"We burnt it," he said, confirming what Glorfindel had told her, then added. "There was a shield around it that hid it from our eyes. We do not think it was able to reveal our location to its master, however. It had a rather simple mind." He looked at her head on, his expression flat. "There may be another. One of the guards from the House of the Mole – Anaduilin's Third – went missing, many months ago. We think it took him. Do you know where?"

"No." Lucy said in a very small voice, shrinking into the covers. Turgon's tone was almost accusatory.

"Do you **remember**?" the King asked. When he did Lucy's mind blanked. All that remained was the blackness and the itch of the shackle around her wrist. She scratched at it. When she did the ellon's eyes darted down to the movement, his lips thinning as his hands tensed against his knees.

"No." said Lucy, not sure if it was the right thing to say. She knew by now that something else had happened after the attack – something that was putting everyone on edge – but she was afraid to ask about the specifics. Afraid to know what was making Glorfindel so upset. _I will not let them kill you,_ he'd said, but the King had shown up unannounced and the elf lord had been all but dragged from the room. Morwen had been brought in as a translator, just in case, and was currently huddled near the windows with her arms crossed over her chest. She was still sick, it seemed, and had yet to say a word.

"Where's Glorfindel?" Lucy asked, because the elves were looking at her like she was actually a threat, and they had never done that before. Not even during her so-called trial, at least not to this extent. The Noldo prince gave her a long, even look as she spoke, but all Lucy could do was stare at the bruising around his neck. Slowly, it was dawning on her that the finger-shaped marks were the same size of her hands.

"Do you want Glorfindel to return?" Turgon said. Lucy nodded fervently. She drew the blankets up to her chin, but it was less from warmth and more out of fear. Glorfindel's words wouldn't stop echoing in her head.

"Yes please." she mumbled, but they didn't call for him. Behind the King stood Maeglin; silent, morbid, and wide-eyed to the point of looking spooked. Lucy tried to surreptitiously catch his attention, but he blatantly ignored her, lingering like a shadow behind his uncle's shoulder. His black hair slid down his front like silk to reveal the pale column of his neck.

For a second – upon seeing it – Lucy was filled with thoughts of blood. With visions of reaching up and snapping Maeglin’s neck just to listen to the crunch of bones. She wanted the redness. She wanted the froth; wanted the richness rolling over her tongue and skin ripping like silk as her teeth tore into the ellon’s throat. _Elf flesh,_ the thought came to her, like the skitter of spider-legs across a counter-top. _Too tough to bite. Blood is sweet._

Then, there were flashes of other things. Her writhing on a bed, her spine contorting, words screamed in a black tongue that tasted like ash inside her mouth. _Noldor. How I hate them,_ the parasite had said. The King's fingers scrabbling against her own as she dug them into his throat. Then the thoughts were gone as if they hadn't been there at all, and Lucy found herself back on the bed, her covers drawn to her chin as the elves stared at her warily. She quickly looked away from Maeglin, unable to stand the sight of his exposed neck a moment longer.

Why did her throat hurt? Where was Glorfindel? Why were they all **staring** at her?

"Did I do something bad?" Lucy asked. There was an itching sensation at her wrist, but a curious blankness persisted inside her mind. She didn't think she'd done something bad, but she was healing much faster than she should have, and Glorfindel was constantly crying. The King had child-sized hand prints around his neck.

Turgon watched her and didn't answer the question. He did ask one, though. At first Lucy didn't understand.

"Did they capture you, or did you go to them?" he said.

Lucy felt tears of frustration prick at her eyes when she realized what he was implying. She reached up, angrily swiping at her face and shaking her head. When she lowered her hand, she caught Maeglin watching her intently. The minute she returned his gaze he looked away, and then all she could see was his neck.

"Did you go of your own freewill?" the King repeated. One of the guards shifted closer, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"I told you." Lucy sniffled pitifully, wiping at her eyes. "I told you, I'm not from Middle-earth. I fell. I'm not supposed to be here." She wanted Glorfindel.

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"Home." Lucy choked out, and she felt sick. "I'm supposed to be **home**. Please, I want Glorfindel."

"Where is your home?" the King pressed. In a fit of helpless frustration, Lucy waved absently towards the sky.

"Up there, in space. On a planet called _Earth_. Not this one."

There was an audible hitch in the King's breathing, his eyes widening ever so slightly and his fingers clenching in the folds of fabric draped across his lap. A moment passed, and then he said very delicately "from the Void?"

Lucy was too upset to read too deeply into his hesitance, and nodded, rubbing at her eyes as the tears began to fall. "Sure. Yes, I don't know. Please, I feel sick. Can I see Glorfindel now? I miss him."

The King's expression shuttered. He was quiet for a time. Lucy waited, fiddling with the blankets as the sunlight patterned across the golden covers. It was another lovely day out, but the air had grown noticeably cooler with the lengthening of autumn. Finally Turgon seemed to come to a decision. He turned to Maeglin. His voice was soft, but full of purpose.

"You are in charge of the bonds," he said, standing as he did so. "Make sure they do not come off. Do not give Glorfindel the key." Maeglin bowed deep, his long eyelashes sweeping downward as he looked towards the floor.

"Yes, Uncle." the ellon demurred.

"Wait, what?" Lucy choked out. She felt her heart jump into her throat and her insides clench. Something was wrong. Something had changed. _What had happened?_ She leaned forward in the bed as if to reach for the King, but she was so weak the sudden movement made her dizzy. She swayed.

Around her, the guards immediately sprung to life. One of them actually went so so far as to draw his sword. The King turned, his long hair trailing down his back in a series of complicated braids. There was no pity in his eyes. No compassion, as there had been the first time he'd questioned her.

"Yes?" he said, as if waiting for her to elaborate. Lucy slumped, twisting the sheets into knots between her hands.

"What will happen to me?" She asked. The King blinked once, then turned to Maeglin. "Wait outside." He told him.

Maeglin bowed again, then left without a word. Lucy's eyes darted from him to the King looming over her like a cloud of death. "What's wrong?" She asked, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. "Where's Glorfindel?"

Turgon's response was curt. "He is waiting outside." he said. "Once you are well, you will translate the books. You will stay here, as before."

"Are you going to kill me?" Lucy blurted out. She'd wanted the books, but the way Turgon had announced it was akin to a death sentence. The King's expression was distant when he spoke.

"We take no joy in the killing of children. In the end, we are all responsible for our own salvation." The statement was ambiguous, with the vague wording of a threat. It brought Lucy absolutely no comfort except to cement her belief that something had gone horribly wrong.

"Will you banish me, then?" she said. She didn't know why she asked. No one ever left the city, and even if she **was** banished, leaving Gondolin was something that she'd wanted for quite some time. When she thought of leaving Glorfindel however, her stomach twisted. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't.

The King's gaze was cold as he stared down at her, his words sharp as ice.

"And why in Illúvatar's name would I allow **that**?" he said. Then he left her, along with the guards. The shackles remained, a heavy weight around Lucy's wrist.

* * *

"I want to go for a walk." Lucy said one morning, three weeks later.

It wasn't a good idea, because she was still weak and incredibly shaky, lying pale and wan on the bed. Glorfindel had barely left her side since she'd been injured, and with the exception of being forced from the room by the King, he was almost always present. All his duties were done from his private desk, and he took all his meals in his chamber. Lucy had never seen him eat though, and whenever she woke up from a nap, it was to find him sitting by her bedside. He didn't sleep, and it was beginning to show.

When she told him of her intention to go for a walk, Glorfindel stared blankly in her direction, a map held limply between his hands. His eyelids were heavy with lack of sleep. The elf lord was very pale, and there was an almost _faded_ quality to his complexion. Around his eyes there were rings of bruising, deep and purpling. For an elf he looked horrible. Almost sick.

"Walk?" Glorfindel parroted, as if he hadn't understood the word. Lucy watched as comprehension slowly dawned on him, his features twisting with panic. She knew he wanted to deny her request. Glorfindel was loath to deny her anything, though – even now – and he wanted so desperately to please. The other elves were avoiding her like cockroaches, but Glorfindel didn't treat her any differently. With more delicacy, perhaps, and definitely an element of dread, but it wasn't so much for himself as it seemed to be a deep, entrenched fear that something would happen to her. Glorfindel was too brittle for Lucy to press him on the subject, however, so she simply stated her intentions and left it at that. She adored him, really, and she didn't want to make him sad, walk or not.

When Glorfindel eventually acquiesced to the walk, Lucy felt her adoration for him ratchet up another notch.

"Not in the gardens." he said softly, standing slowly and walking over to her in such as way that it seemed like he was in physical pain. He moved like an old man, devoid of grace. "There will be too many guards."

"Okay." Lucy said. There were guards everywhere these days, and they weren't Glorfindel's: they were the King's. Her legs were still shaky, so in order to conserve on energy Glorfindel made to pick her up. One of his arms went beneath her knees, the other around her back. Lucy leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking of Tommy. Of how Tommy had been right.

"I really like you, Glorfindel." she told him. The minute she did she felt the wind go out of him. Instead of standing, the elf lord sunk back to the bed.

Lucy felt Glorfindel curl in to her; she felt the tip of his nose brushing against her forehead as he planted a soft kiss to her temple. "My Nimeleth." he mumbled into her hair, sounding utterly reverent but so very tired. Lucy reached up and patted his cheek. He leaned his head into her hand.

"Why do you call me _Nimeleth_?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel's expression became acutely distressed, as if she'd stuck a knife in his back and twisted.

"You do not remember your epessë?" he asked. When Lucy's blank expression remained, Glorfindel seemed to deflate, staring despondently towards the floor. "You let me call you that, before." he mumbled, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. It was all he would say on the subject.

After that, Glorfindel picked her up and carried her from the room. The stairs still required too much effort, but there was a balcony of sorts on the same level as the elf lord's room, towards the front of the tower. Lucy had never seen the city from this high up, and when they emerged from the hall onto the exterior landing, she was momentarily blinded by the light. It wasn't a particularly bright day out – the weather was overcast, and a storm could be seen moving in from over the mountains – but the view was breathtaking. Below them, Lucy spied Glorfindel's estate: the courtyard leading into the vine-covered gardens, the stables and small forge next to the marbled front gate. Beyond that was the whole of the city, gradually sloping downwards in a crow's nest of golden rooftops and gleaming minarets towards the greenness of the alpine meadow beyond.

In the distance, the encircling mountains looked like dark blue smudges along the horizon. A cold wind was rolling in from the north, smelling of winter. There would be snow soon, Lucy was sure. Glorfindel put her down, but didn't let go. His hands slid down her back until they came to rest at her waist. Lucy reached over and gripped his hands in turn, curling her fingers around his palms as she sucked in an unsteady breath. She could feel the weight of his palms through the fabric; she was hypersensitive to everything these days, especially touch. Always, she was thirsty.

"Do you wish to go back?" Glorfindel asked, sounding almost resigned. Lucy swallowed hard to rid her throat of the dryness and shook her head. She'd been bedridden for so long she was beginning to go stir crazy, and when she slept at night she was plagued by nightmares that never stopped. She had to walk, if only to give herself a bit of normalcy.

"I'm fine." she said shakily. She knew she didn't sound very convincing, but Glorfindel didn't press her on it. Slowly, Lucy stepped away from him and began to walk towards the railing, one toddling step at a time. The splint around her ankle made her clumsy, and even though her leg was mostly healed, the pain was such that she barely put any weight on it. Glorfindel followed her like a shadow, barely two paces away and arms slightly raised to catch her.

When she reached the parapet Lucy gripped the edge, her fingers tightening tremulously around the rim as she leaned forward to look across the city. Still, she made sure not to lean too far out. She could feel Glorfindel tensing behind her, ready to dart forward at a moment's notice. He was so nervous these days that Lucy didn't want to be the source of more anxiety.

Briefly, she remembered a time when she'd wanted to jump to her death in an effort to fall _out_ of Middle-earth; how she'd hated Glorfindel for being Tommy's idol, desiring nothing more than to push him from the tallest tower she could find. She didn't want to, anymore. She liked him too much, and he was sad.

"When will winter come?" she asked, shivering against a cool gust of air. Lucy heard the elf lord shift behind her, fiddling with a piece of cloth. A moment later she felt him drape his outer robe across her shoulders, swaddling her up beneath the fabric as his arms went around her to keep it in place. Lucy let him, leaning against his front. She didn't look back.

"Soon." he mumbled, from somewhere above her.

"Are the winters cold?" Lucy asked, not looking forward to the chill. Glorfindel said "yes," and Lucy huddled up further.

"I don't like the cold." she admitted. Glorfindel tilted his head, the fall of his golden hair tumbling across one of her shoulders.

"In Valinor." he began in a slow, halting tone. "It is always warm. There is always fruit on the trees and the water is clear. When the wind blows across the fields, it smells like summer. Before the end of The Trees, the light of Telperion and Laurelin made everything brighter."

"Do you miss it?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel's fingers clenched in the front of his robe.

"Yes." he choked out. "But Gondolin is my home, now. I will not abandon it."

Lucy didn't think Glorfindel was capable of abandonment, but didn't say so aloud. "My home is gray." she said, struggling to describe what Earth was like in a way he would understand. She doubted there were Sindarin words for _concrete_ or _skyscraper._ "Everything is made of stone, and everyone lives in towers. Really tall towers. There are no mountains, but there is water. The sky is dark a lot of the time. We never see the stars."

"I thought you would be able to see stars from the Void." Glorfindel said, sounding oddly devastated. It was that word, again. That _void_. It tickled at the back of her brain like an itch she just couldn't quite scratch. For a brief moment Lucy saw nothingness and a pair of magma-bright eyes peering out of the gloom. Then the image was gone. She shrugged and pulled Glorfindel's robe around herself as he drew away, his hands falling to his sides.

"No." she admitted, and there was an ache beneath her breastbone. "There is too much pollution."

Belatedly realizing that Glorfindel wouldn't know the English word, Lucy amended "there's too much _filth_. Smog, maybe? I don't know the Sindarin word." Another thought occurred to her, and slightly hopeful, Lucy turned around. The air smelt like snow.

"When the war is over, will you go back to Valinor?" she asked. She didn't know **when** it would be over, but Glorfindel would like to visit, she was sure.

Only, Glorfindel wasn't standing in front of her.

He was still _there_ , but he was limp – knocked out, it looked like – and covered in blood. His long golden locks were red with it. Another elf was grasping him by the collar.

The elf was so tall he was practically a giant, sporting deep red hair and wild gray eyes and an expression so haunted he looked akin to a ghoul. There was fire all around them, and behind the giant elf Lucy could see buildings burning. They weren't in Gondolin anymore. They were somewhere else, high up on an unfamiliar mountain peak, and beyond the fire there was nothing but the tumultuous whiteness of a snowstorm. The twisting sensation of time _ripping_ hit Lucy full force.

The red-haired ellon had a delayed reaction to her standing there, almost as if he didn't see her at first. When he did he abruptly dropped Glorfindel's body, reaching up with shaky, spider-like fingers to wipe his bloody hand across the bottom half of his face. He stared at her with a dull sort of horror.

"That." said the ellon in halting Sindarin. "You – you weren't supposed to see that."

He had an unnaturally hoarse voice that sounded like gravel compared to the rest of his kindred, as if he'd permanently damaged it from too much screaming. He was so thin, despite his size, to the point where he looked like he was on the verge of starving. Lucy just stared at him, bug-eyed and slightly in shock. Around her the world narrowed to singular sensations; the feel of the flames licking at her back, the coolness of the snowflakes melting against her cheek. There was so much red, blood on the snow and blood on Glorfindel, splattered like wet paint against a stark white wall. The other ellon's hair was red, too. Lucy had never seen an elf with red hair before.

Slowly, she shifted her gaze from Glorfindel to the elf standing over him. The ellon shifted his stance as she eyed him, his gaze darting anxiously to the side as he ran his bloody hand repeatedly across his mouth. As he did so his other arm escaped from a strange fold on the front of his tunic, and Lucy realized that he was missing his right hand. All that remained was a stump. Her gaze went from the stump, then back to Glorfindel, lying lifeless on the snow and complexion colorless. His bright blue eyes were glazed over, and he looked dead. The fire was creeping closer.

"Did you do it?" she asked the red-haired elf, and he flinched. There was no answer, and instantly the hysteria was unfurling inside of her.

"DID YOU DO IT?!" Lucy shrieked. The ellon started shaking, his pupils shrinking as his left hand spasmed against his face. He dragged his fingers across his mouth as if to contain a scream.

"I'm a good son." he choked out. "A good son. Atar says so."

Seconds later, a giant figure covered in glass sharp armor lunged out of the flames. It swung a mace so hard into the elf's side that Lucy heard the _crunch_ and flinched.

The ellon crumpled like paper, skidding across the ground with the force of the blow. In his place stood the man with eyes like magma, palming his gargantuan mace as he casually stepped over Glorfindel's body and continued forward. The stranger's skin was pale, his hair made of molten fire that hissed and sunk into the snow. His full lips were twisted into a smile. Lucy remembered the purgatory-like void – the smoke man emerging the gloom – and gasped as everything came back to her in a rush.

"Maedhros." Mairon crooned as he advanced on the red-haired elf, his expression amused. "Morgoth sends his regards. How have you been, Coppertop? I've missed you."

Then time twisted again. In a flash of white, Lucy was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> All Quenya. Beware of bad grammar.
> 
> Inyë samsinwa – I (should) have known


	23. My Lovely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 4, 2016

"Lucy, you should not stand there." Morwen said. "You will fall."

Lucy looked down, towards the older woman and the thicket of leafless trees waiting below her. She was balanced atop the parapet that ran between Glorfindel's gardens and the courtyard, her dress billowing around her ankles as the wind pressed the fabric to her legs. If she gazed at the gardens from where she was standing, the trees resembled needles; bone white shards rising upwards from a sea of moss that had dulled down to a mustard yellow with the approaching winter. The few leaves that still clung to the branches rattled noisily in the wind as clouds gathered overhead. A cold front was moving down from the north, faster than expected, and the weather was overcast.

Lucy's bare fingers were numb from the chill, her nose and cheeks rosy. The low temperature relieved the dryness in her throat however, which was why she was out there. She was thirsty. So thirsty. No matter how much she drank, water never appeased her.

"Why?" she asked Morwen, raising her voice to be heard over the wailing wind. The older woman looked up, swaddled head to toe in dark grey and purple fabric, her face framed by a hood of charcoal-colored fur. There were mittens on her hands, and a woven basket slung over her right arm. She had taken to collecting odd things in recent months: dead flowers, sometimes, and bits of string. If she was going to be stuck in Gondolin forever, the woman had said, then she was going to make her living quarters feel like home. The Noldor could rot in Angband, for all she cared. They had taken her sons from her.

"The Lord Glorfindel does not like it." Morwen warned, raising her voice in turn. The gesture was unnecessary, as Lucy heard her well enough. Her senses were sharp these days. "You know he will worry."

He would, but Lucy felt like being difficult.

"Glorfindel isn't here." she deadpanned, and it was the truth. He'd ridden out with the rest of his guard and the House of the Hammer over two weeks past, to rid the mountains of orcs. Every day, more and more of them were winding their way through the alpine passes, looking for the city. It was beginning to turn into a game of whack-a-mole with no end in sight. Lucy missed Glorfindel terribly when he was gone, but she wasn't the sort of person to say that sort of thing out loud. Now she reserved her wildly inappropriate comments for _other_ things. Her loose tongue was getting better.

"Please, Lucy." Morwen insisted, readjusting the basket across her arm. "It is cold out. You are no good with the chill." There was a pause. "I do not wish for you to fall. There are no other Edain in the city."

It was selfish reasoning, but true. Lucy understood it.

A year ago, she might have fallen. A year ago, she was so sick she couldn't walk. One winter had come and gone since she'd fallen into Middle-earth, however, followed by a dull spring and a stunted summer. Now a second winter was fast approaching, and whenever a breeze wound its way in from the north, there was always the hint of snow. Her birthday had been the other day, a miserable October twenty-first where the rain had fallen before turning icy. The sleet had pelted upon the city, and overnight the hoarfrost had come, coating the trees in crystals and killing the flora prematurely. At the base of the wall Lucy could see them: small, white flowers that Glorfindel adored, their petals brittle and lifeless. The elf lord had missed her birthday too, even though he'd said he wouldn't. Lucy was eighteen now, but she didn't feel it. She was bored and lonely.

"Do you want to come with me to visit Maeglin?" she asked Morwen. At the bottom of the parapet, the woman scrunched her nose in distaste and waved a hand in dismissal. She wasn't fond of the elf lord, but Morwen didn't like the elves in general. Lucy didn't blame her.

"No." Morwen said, and that was the end of that. Lucy turned and carefully stepped onto the walkway from her precarious perch, heading towards the tower. She was going to go see Maeglin either way.

In the shadows her guards followed her; never far, and always walking in silence.

* * *

Maeglin's estate was warm and dark, reflecting the light of the large amber lamps that hung from his vaulted ceiling. The elf lord's seneschal, Ivorast, did not like it when Lucy wandered where she pleased, but Maeglin wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, and the elf lord had long stopped caring when she visited. During the winter Maeglin liked to hibernate, and once the cold weather rolled around Lucy was hard pressed to find him anywhere beside his chambers.

Lucy knew where his rooms were by memory, and so she followed the path with confidence, uncaring of the guards. Glorfindel's retinue wouldn't trail her past the entrance to his estate, and Maeglin himself was exceptionally territorial; his own guards would only follow Lucy so far as the inner sanctum.

The elf lord's quarters were deep underground, but they were not inaccessible. Lucy went past the main hall, descending down a set of stairs dug deep into a mine-shaft that went sixty feet south in a solid drop. The shaft was well lit, but the stairs had no railings and were exceedingly treacherous; a Sindarin sort of design, Ecthelion had said. Apparently Maeglin was more like his father than he realized.

When Lucy reached the bottom of the stairs she came up short as she ran into an ellon. It was Anaduilin, of all people. The silver-haired warden did not greet her, but he blinked once, which was the only sign of surprise that he showed.

"Hello." Lucy said. Anaduilin narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Lucy was almost relieved to see him acting the same way that he had when she'd first met him over a year ago. Normalcy was scarce these days, and extremely precious.

"Is Maeglin here?" she asked. Anaduilin shut the door behind him with a soft _clack_.

"Yes." he said, then added "he's resting." Lucy went in anyways.

Maeglin was not in his laboratory, so she moved past that into the main chamber. His bedroom was much like the rest of his estate, full of black and gold and silver drapery. There was a small slit of a window that let in the light, although there wasn't much in the way of a view other than the distant mountains. A big stone bed sat in the center of the room, and the elf lord was lying atop that. One leg was bent upwards, the other dangling lazily over the edge of the cot. Maeglin's slipper was sliding off his narrow foot, his body slack, his arms outstretched as if affixed to a crucifix. His inky hair was looping in whorls across the mattress.

It had taken ages for the ellon to grow accustomed to her presence, but through sheer perseverance and lack of options, Lucy had finally won him over. There were few chances for them to have a conversation with someone their age – relatively speaking – and because of this a comfortable ambivalence had settled between them.

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?" Maeglin drawled, not looking in her direction. Lucy made a humming noise as she closed the door with a _clack_. Around her right wrist the shackles made a light _tinkling_ sound as they collided with the door handle.

"Glorfindel is still out," she admitted. "I'm bored." _And thirsty,_ but she didn't tell him that. Maeglin's rooms were dry, and they automatically triggered a hunger that was hard to pin down. It was even harder to control when she was near him.

"So I'm playing second fiddle again." Maeglin sneered from the bed. "How charming." Lucy stepped forward and trailed her hand over the aquamarine baubles sitting in a neat little row along his desk.

"You would have more friends if you weren't so mean, you know." she told him. "No one likes you."

"As if you're one to talk, you nasty little creature," he quipped. "I should banish you from my room."

"You won't." Lucy said, picking up one of the baubles and playing with it between her hands. "You like me too much." The tip of Maeglin's nose turned pink, but he still didn't look at her. A moment later he waved his hand in the general direction of his desk, before letting his arm flop back onto the mattress.

"The black box with the white stones. Open it. And don't break the glass – I know you're playing with it."

"I'm not."

"Liar. I told you not to."

Lucy put down the bauble and picked up the box, leaning her hip against the side of his desk. She opened the container. Inside there was an amber pendant on the end of a long, silver chain, the stone set in a casing that didn't look very Noldorin in nature. The gem gleamed yellow under the light, like citrine. Lucy already had a million pieces of jewellery, but she loved the color, and the design intrigued her.

"I already have pendants." she told him anyways. Maeglin sighed from the bed, his voice thick with exasperation.

"There is a latch on the right side. Press on it."

She did. The bottom of the pendant automatically unfolded into a long, razor sharp needle with a hollow tip at the end.

"Don't poke yourself." Maeglin warned, his tone far too casual. "It's poisonous."

At that Lucy grinned ear to ear and let out a delighted chuckle, pressing the little weight on the side of the spindle as she watched it fold back in on itself, over and over again. The shell of the pendant was a heavy weight in her hand.

"This is smart." Lucy admitted, and it really was. She wasn't fond of jewellery, but practical gifts were a plus. Only Maeglin would break the King's rules and give her a weapon. Then again he was Turgon's nephew, and technically a prince. The elf lord was probably the only one that could get away with it.

"What's it for?" Lucy asked.

Maeglin tilted his head back until he was looking at her upside down, his neck utterly exposed as his hair slithered off the bed. Immediately Lucy eyed it, watching as the slender column bobbed while he spoke.

"Your begetting day was yesterday, wasn't it?" he queried, then added more sullenly. "Besides, it's only a matter of time before we join the war. You won't be safe here." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "don't tell my uncle I gave it to you. He'll banish me."

Lucy grinned and put the gift on his desk, her long skirts swishing behind her as she walked with a swaying gait towards the bed. Outside the winter wind whistled, rattling the shutters in a series of violent jerks. Lucy trailed her fingers over anything within reach; her silver shackles making a _tinkling_ sound as they knocked against a stack of books piled high on his chair.

"How did you know when my begetting day was?" she asked. Maeglin closed his eyes, his eyelashes sweeping downwards like blackened crescent moons. The fingers on his right hand twitched. Still, he didn't get up to greet her.

"I have my ways." he demurred, his words turning into a deep hum that rumbled through his chest. Lucy remembered true depth though, and found it lacking; she recalled the way that Mairon's voice had sunk into her bones and curled her toes. No elf could mimic that brassy range, and she knew it now. Saw it written in the books, even as she tried to deny it. _The Children,_ Mairon had called them, and Lucy remembered calling them that, too. She didn't see real children all that often, but she didn't mind them so much anymore. They were soft and sweet and Glorfindel adored them. That was probably the reason _why_ , when she thought about it for any length of time. Lucy's true personality was rather blank; Glorfindel liked children, so Lucy had decided she would like them too. Seeing him happy made **her** happy. This was good.

_No more repeats of Tommy_ , she thought. _No more tears._ This time, things would be different.

"So they just let you down here, did they?" Maeglin intoned as Lucy reached him, coming to a halt beside his head. She looked at him, her long braid slipping over her shoulder to brush against the tip of his nose. Maeglin sneezed in irritation, but didn't reach up with his hand to swat it away.

"I told them I was coming to visit you." Lucy said. It was her get-out-of-jail-free card. Glorfindel was her benefactor, but Maeglin was her gaoler and everyone knew it. He did a good job of it, most times. Always Maeglin obeyed the general rules set out by his uncle, but when it was just the two of them his standards relaxed and got a little easier, his mood more duplicitous. Their friendship was a strange one, in which they used each other in equal measure. Still Lucy enjoyed his presence, and on his better days Maeglin seemed to genuinely like her, too. She hadn't figured out what the elf lord wanted yet, but she had a hunch.

Maeglin opened his eyes, looking up at her; black, doe-bright eyes that hadn't aged a day since she'd met him, but perhaps had gotten a little more open. All his hair had fallen away, exposing his creamy neck. This close – close enough to see the veins pulsing beneath his skin – Lucy felt her thirst rise like a tsunami, and she swallowed hard. _Not now,_ she thought, but it never worked.

"So the Vanya will be paying me an unexpected visit, then?" Maeglin drawled. There was a slight furrow to his brow, but he seemed too relaxed to care. "How wonderful."

"Glorfindel's not a Vanya." Lucy said. "He's Noldo." Slowly, she crouched beside his head.

With rapt attention, Lucy watched the way Maeglin's throat bobbed, eying the paleness of his skin against the blackness of his hair. She'd learned some time ago that his mother had possessed the same sort of skin. _The White Lady of the Noldor_ , they'd called her. Turgon’s little sister. Maeglin still wouldn't talk about how she'd died, but Lucy knew he loved her. The elf lord was a mama's boy, although he would never admit it aloud.

"He's as Vanya as any Noldo will get." Maeglin quipped, in reference to Glorfindel. His frown deepened. "Ask Ecthelion. Ask anyone. He got nothing from his father except for his wealth."

Lucy reached out, slow and languid, her fingers alighting on Maeglin's cheekbones before sliding down to trace the sharp line of his jaw. Inch by inch they crept over his skin, until her digits were sliding in tandem to circle his neck. Maeglin had such a beautiful throat; lovely in a dark sort of way that made Lucy think of crunching bones and blood on her teeth. The elf lord didn't jump under her touch, although he was still adamant about keeping her away from his ears. Lucy leaned in anyways, putting her lips close to the pointed lobes.

"Maeglin, are you **jealous**?" she asked with a slight snicker. Her fingers pressed down on his neck, massaging at pressure points, and Maeglin's gaze grew hungry. They were both hungry, but for different things. Lucy's grin was all teeth.

Maeglin’s hands turned over, tightening into fists against the bed. A faint flush dusted his cheeks, his eyelids growing heavy.

"Maybe." he admitted. Lucy's grin widened, her fingers curling against his throat as her nails scraped along his skin. The elf lord shuddered involuntarily, his head arching against the bed. Lucy loved the feel of his skin. It was so smooth. _Elf flesh is sweet, taste it._ But she didn't. Lucy didn't like sweet things.

"I love your skin," she told him honestly, because even though she was getting better at holding her tongue, she still had a habit of saying exactly what was on her mind. "It's so pretty, and white."

"It's my mother's skin." Maeglin said thickly, and it was a dance between the two of them; a game they had played before. "I look like my mother. Like my uncle." He tilted his head back, until he could gaze at her head-on. "I do not like this." he admitted hoarsely, reaching for her hair. "This _getting older_ thing of yours."

"There's not much I can do about it." Lucy said as his fingers slid through her loosened locks. For a moment she allowed the contact. He was letting her touch his neck, so it was only fair.

"It's not safe." he insisted, and suddenly the hand in her hair was tightening, drawing her forward. "The way you look."

Lucy eyed him with a heavy gaze, her attention never wavering far from his neck. "And how **do** I look?" she asked, genuinely curious. Time and again, Maeglin started to tell her, but time and again he failed to follow through. Lucy knew what he wanted, sort of, and for a while she'd thought the notion stupid. Later, she'd decided he was compensating. Idril was out of reach, so he'd simply transferred his feelings temporarily onto another. It was the way Maeglin worked, mercurial and ever shifting, but Lucy wasn't interested in playing that particular game with him. It led down dark roads, and elvish obsessions led to dark places. Still, she liked his neck.

"Just once." Maeglin breathed, pulling her down until there was naught but an inch of space between them. Lucy could see the slightly moist sheen to his lips as he whet them. His eyes were very dark. "Just once." he pleaded. "To see what it feels like –"

At the last moment Lucy turned her head. She felt lips on her neck for the briefest of moments, warm and soft, before she pulled away and removed her hands from his throat.

"No." she said bluntly. "Not **that**." Lucy liked Maeglin a lot – liked playing games with him, the odd dance they did in private – but she was older now. Not exactly wise, but getting more selective in the strife she caused for others. She refused to do anything to hurt Glorfindel.

Maeglin grit his teeth, his features twisting in sudden agony. He reached up and clenched his hands in his hair. "You should leave." he ground out. Lucy knew she'd overstayed her welcome. She stood, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself as she listened to the winter wind rattle against his window.

"I'll be back." she told him, grabbing her gift from his desk and sliding it into her pocket. They both knew she would.

She’d barely stepped out of his room before there was a muffled shout and the sharp _crash_ of something being thrown against the wall. Lucy pretended she didn't hear the commotion, and kept on walking. Life was easier that way.

Maeglin didn't follow her. The wind continued howling.

* * *

The dreams had started shortly after the attack.

They weren't dreams, really – more like nightmares – and at first Lucy had assumed they were the result of the time jump, where she'd seen a bloody Glorfindel and an even-bloodier red-haired giant crumpling under the mace of a Maia. The jump had lasted less than a second in real time, and when it was over Glorfindel hadn't known she'd disappeared. It had knocked the wind right out of her, however, and the second the elf lord stepped back, Lucy had collapsed on the ground in a shaking heap; her teeth chattering in shock and the hem of her nightgown wet with snow.

"No," she'd gasped in terror. "Not **that**."

Glorfindel had made a wordless sound of panic, and an instant later he'd dropped to his knees, scrambling to pick her up. Lucy had clung to him in desperation, utterly hysterical. "Glorfindel," she’d babbled in broken Sindarin. "Glorfindel, don't go with the bad elf. He'll kill you."

Then she'd collapsed, unconscious and insensible.

For three days afterwards Lucy had drifted in and out of consciousness, only _drifting_ was the wrong word to use for the sensation. Her memories of what had happened after the attack – the conversation in purgatory, the possession by Mairon – returned in bits and pieces, all patched together with aging glue. The nightmares that followed these recollections were even worse. They were memories, and they were alien: fractured sensations that came to her through a razor-wired sieve, images of endless ash and a trio of mountains disappearing into the gloom. Everything was red in her dreams, all heat and burning. Volcanoes spit and hissed, the ground rumbling as they bellowed like pipe organs. Creatures with jeering faces leered down at her, running blades along her back and cracking whips.

The pain was everything, and there was no way to escape it. Always, Lucy found herself floating in someone else's bloodstream, like the parasite Mairon had floated through hers. Her host's mind was sharp and brittle, the barbed wire bleeding like severed veins. Everything was agony, and consciousness was a cage. Time had broken down and melded things together, reassembling disparate psyches until Lucy couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

_I don't want to be here,_ she'd thought in the darkness. Everything was awful, burning like acid.

_What are you **doing** here? _ Another voice had asked, duel layered and broken. The first cadence had been deep and smooth, overlaid by damaged rasping that sounded like gravel against her ears. Lucy hadn't answered.

_Get out,_ the voice hissed in panic when she didn't respond. A memory had surfaced. _Get out, get out, GET OUT!_ But it was too late, and Lucy saw it; heard the laughter, and felt a hand clenching in her hair as someone yanked her head up.

_Gnaw through your arm, Coppertop,_ the stranger crooned. _Watch; see how it heals, over and over again? No one will save you._

For a second, unreality bled into reality, and Lucy had seen through eyes that were not her own. There was a flash of a reflection in a nearby mirror, copper hair and so many scars and _everything was red in Thangorodrim._ Then there was screaming, followed by the sound of shattering glass, before Lucy jolted awake. Glorfindel had been by her bedside. The elf lord looked like death warmed over, his hands shaking as he reached for her.

"Lucy," he’d said, his features scrunching up as if he'd been about to cry. "Lucy, I miss you. Please, stay awake this time." Aearmarth had been standing just behind them. His hand was raised, his mouth partially open as if he'd been about to speak.

"Mountains." Lucy had gasped, reaching feebly for Glorfindel as she tried to fight back her tears. There was a feeling of self-loathing clinging to her and she couldn't seem to shake it. The elf lord had gathered her close, holding her so tight she could barely breathe, but Lucy had been determined to tell him. "There were three," she said, gripping his front. "Three mountains, and monsters with whips. Everything hurts."

Before the elf lord could respond, Aearmarth was speaking, his tone a mixture of cold fury and quiet alarm.

"The city has been compromised. **Again**." he'd stressed, even as Glorfindel continued to stroke Lucy's hair and rock her back and forth. "The King must be warned, and you need to sleep. It has been three weeks. You are no longer thinking properly."

"Glorfindel." Lucy warbled, desperate to convey what she'd seen and failing miserably. It had felt so real. It **was** real. "Glorfindel, the mountains –"

"Shh, Nimeleth. I know, I am sorry."

"Laurëfindil, are you listening to me?" Aearmarth had asked tersely, but Glorfindel hadn't. When it became clear that this was the case, the seneschal had simply turned around and left the room. It didn't take long for him to fetch the King. The Noldo prince had arrived with a bevy of guards, his hair undone and his expression furious.

"No," Glorfindel had begged, shaking his head and clutching Lucy close as he'd held out his arm to stay him. "No, **please** –"

But the King hadn't been willing to listen. He'd pried them apart and banished Glorfindel from the room. Once he was gone Turgon had gripped Lucy's chin with his hand. Lucy had cried out at the force behind it, twisting in his grip and scrabbling at his fingers. Her shackles had felt warm around her wrist.

"Is he speaking to you?" the King had asked, and Lucy had known, then; she could fathom whom he was talking about. She remembered Mairon's voice, rolling through her head like thunder. All she wanted to do was to talk about was the mountains, the fire and smoke and ash.

"The mountains," she'd gasped. "The mountains, they're burning –"

The King had turned to Aearmarth standing near his shoulder, but his hand had remained on her chin. "Contact Egalmoth." he'd said. "Tell him to arrange a council." There was a pause. "I expect you to see to your lord in the future, you understand? You were supposed to inform me if he fell ill."

"Yes, my King." Aearmarth said. There had been a tightness to his voice, but he hadn't questioned the order. Lucy had clawed at the King's hand, and he'd finally turned back to her. Not once did he let go.

"There are three peaks." Lucy had said. She had to tell him. It couldn't happen again, but time was jumbled. "Three peaks, and mountains burning. His mind is bleeding." She didn't know whose.

Turgon's expression was unreadable. "Yes." he'd said simply, his hand still on her chin. "I know." Then he'd hit a pressure point on her neck, knocking her out. When Lucy awoke there was an additional shackle around her wrist. Her senses had cleared after that, and time had seemed less _mixed_. Slowly Lucy had begun to recover, but the nightmares persisted. Whenever she closed her eyes, she was in that dark place; that cage of barbed wire and bleeding veins, with the taste of her own flesh between her teeth and despair so deep she could drown in it.

_Sleep_ , her mind cried out constantly, _you need to sleep_ , but she was doing less and less of it these days. Always she was thirsty, and the darkness made her miserable. Nearly two months after the attack, Lucy finally began to translate the books.

It was then – only then, as she'd sat at a table with Idril, writing down her first shaky words in Tengwar – that she’d had learned that Mairon's other name was _Sauron._ The bitterness flooded her, then; burning out her veins and making her feel hollow. The shackles were heavy around her wrist.

In her head, all Lucy could hear was the ghost of his laughter: deep, rich, and vicious.

* * *

The winter wind was driving as she walked back to Glorfindel's estate, but there was no snow yet. The chill had arrived with a vengeance, but the weather itself was not abnormal.

The elves were not so affected by the cold as humans were, but the sudden change in seasons had taken even them by surprise. Ever since Lucy’s attack the city had been plagued by storms of a vicious nature. The encircling mountains were a pale gray smudge in the distance, hazed over by a familiar whiteness that signalled snowfall. Along the horizon the sky was dark, and during the night one could see a faint red glow from behind the mountains. Above the sky was currently gray with clouds, and from the north a cold wind howled; whistling through the jagged peaks so loudly one could hear the eerie shriek all the way from the city. The valley itself looked drab, the grass dulled down and the flowers dead in lieu of an early winter.

Lucy pulled her fox fur cloak more tightly around her, her teeth chattering as she gripped her hood to hold it down against the driving wind. It wound its way through the marble towers and golden minarets of Gondolin, making the shutters rattle. The guards trailed behind her; not directly in her line of sight, but Lucy knew they were there. She never went anywhere without them anymore, and the only reason she was allowed to leave the estate was because the last four months had passed without incident. The lack of privacy and constant supervision were stifling, but she'd learned to accept it, if only for Glorfindel's sake. He wasn't home at the moment, but he was supposed to be getting back later that day. Lucy missed him terribly, as the other Noldor were absolutely intolerable.

Lucy hadn't wanted to translate the books, but they'd forced her to. The Gondolindrim were at the end of their tether, and so soon after the attack they wouldn't take _no_ for an answer. _Doom of the Noldor_ , the texts had said, and Lucy believed them. Elves – especially the Noldor – were lovely to look at, and very creative, but they were prideful. Vehemently, unabashedly prideful, and they had very long memories and were far too good at holding a grudge. Sometimes, they’d even made her translate the books with weapons drawn.

"Are you holding anything back?" Idril had asked a few months ago, her expression one of concern. Lucy liked her, but she'd still written down the wrong answer and told the princess "no." Often she would reveal bits and pieces of info, but for future events she would leave out certain details to keep the Noldor from forming a complete picture, or plead ignorance. If she lost her value to them, they would kill her, Lucy knew. Except now it wasn't her only problem.

Everyone in the city knew who she was, if not the specifics of her confinement. Amongst Gondolin's inhabitants, Lucy's relationship with Glorfindel – a human “youth” under the care of a too-kind elf lord – was something of an oddity, and the Noldor treated her as such. Slowly the _ellith_ of the court and the lords less prone to warfare had started trickling in to the estate, poking and prodding at her as if she were some sort of creature on display. Noldor loved children, but Lucy was looking less and less like a youth these days, and their charitable nature towards her was decreasing as a result. Words like "pretty for an Edain" were tossed around with increasing frequency. Each time she heard them, it took everything she had not to start screaming.

Once, Lucy had struck up a conversation with a pretty, dark haired minstrel who visited Aearmarth on occasion: an ellon by the name of Cirhíl. He'd been Noldo through and through, with pale skin and jet-black hair and exquisite grey eyes that were heavy lidded and jewel like. Cirhíl had seemed nice enough, and terribly afraid of the war. He loved the poetry of words, he’d said, and not the song of the sword.

Lucy had thought the ellon was content with spending his days strumming a harp, until she'd casually mentioned the subject of dwarves. Then he'd sneered un-ironically and advocated for the wholesale slaughter of the "savages."

When Lucy had asked Cirhíl if he thought the same of humans, the ellon had graced her with a smile.

"Not you, _Nimeleth._ " he'd said, using the epessë Glorfindel had given her as he'd placed a flower crown atop her head. "Beautiful things must be well tended to, like a garden. The Edain would have butchered such a rose."

These Gondolindrim were the **good** type of Noldor, Lucy was told again and again; these elves like Cirhíl. They were nothing like their warmongering cousins, the ever elusive and much-cursed Fëanorians from the north. Lucy would have laughed out loud at the irony of the statement, if it hadn't been her life on the line. Every day she could feel the presence of the guards at her back, waiting for her to trip up. Glorfindel – sweet, ever-faithful Glorfindel – was her only escape from their anger. The elf lord might have been terribly passionate like all his brethren, and he took to rejection about as well as a cat took to water, but he was kind. Unfalteringly kind, and ever gentle. If Lucy hadn't personally seen him hack the baramog to pieces and shatter her room with the force of his screaming, she would've never guessed that he had the capacity for violence. When she asked the others about this, they blamed Glorfindel's un-Noldo like behavior on his mother being a Vanya – just like Maeglin had.

"Laurëfindil?" Ecthelion had queried when she'd questioned him one day, raising one elegant black eyebrow in surprise. "Why do you ask?" When Glorfindel was out and Ecthelion was free, the other elf lord was in charge of watching her. Lucy didn't hate him for it, but the entire process was humiliating.

"Can't I?" she asked petulantly, kicking her legs back and forth over the edge of the table that she'd been sitting on. The Noldo had shrugged gracefully.

"You should ask him yourself. He would like it."

"I'm asking you."

Ecthelion pursed his lips and seemed cautious with his words as he spoke. Lucy was sure this was only partially due to being respectful of Glorfindel's feelings; no one trusted her, ever. With **anything**.

"Laurëfindil is Laurëfindil." Ecthelion said diplomatically. "He has always been odd. But yes, his mother is Vanya. Everyone knows this. They raise their children differently."

Cirhíl was even less forgiving in his assessment than Maeglin.

"It's his mother's blood." the minstrel had sneered; trying to surreptitiously cop a feel of her breast beneath a golden-leafed tree while Glorfindel was out and about. The Noldor had developed two modes of functioning around Lucy as she'd grown older: extreme distrust, or morbid fascination. Cirhíl was the latter.

"There's nothing wrong with his mother." Lucy had protested, even though she didn't know the elleth at all. The Noldorin minstrel had given her a nasty grin, reaching for her again. He had what amounted to a passing interest in her, but kept his wandering hands to himself when they were in public. Glorfindel was exceptionally protective, and would have decapitated him for touching her in such a manner.

"He's not pure." Cirhíl had drawled, his slender fingers reaching for her hair. "He has all the passion of the Noldor, and none of the wrath. A terrible irony, that he's so good at killing."

Lucy turned her head away from the minstrel’s advance, and wouldn't let him touch her, but she didn't move farther than that. She wasn't scared of him. Elves didn't really scare her anymore, because Mairon was a thousand times worse. Cirhíl had pouted prettily at her rejection, and asked her why she was so cold.

"I'm too young for you, **cradle robber**." she'd told him bluntly. "Keep your hands to yourself." The Noldo's expression had turned cruel.

"You look old enough."

"Why do you hate the Vanyar?" she'd asked.

Cirhíl had blinked owlishly for a moment, before he had frowned and sniffed imperiously.

"I don't hate them." he mused. "Only distrust. All they care about is the Valar and their music, while the earth runs red with Noldor blood. They never do anything to help."

"Glorfindel does."

"His father was a Noldo lord." Cirhíl spat, dismissing the statement with a wave of his hand. "He had no choice. Laurëfindil would never have come to Middle-earth if his father had not made him. If the King had not asked. Everyone knows how much he loved the trees. Summer child, he was. Prince of the Flowers."

It was the end of their conversation. Lucy tried to avoid the minstrel after that.

Glorfindel did not seem to be the type to leave his home, however, father's orders or no. As she walked down the street towards the elf lord's estate, Lucy thought of how attached Glorfindel was to Gondolin, and decided she would ask him about it later.

The street leading up to the estate was mostly deserted. Gondolin was one giant wind tunnel, where the winter squalls whistled downward in between narrow alleys and empty cobblestone streets. Lucy watched as marble buildings became grey under the overcast light, their golden rooftops dimming beneath the clouds. Flowers were still clinging to the vines and trellises, encased in ice and dead from the frost. An errant leaf from a now-bare tree skittered sideways across the pavement. Before, Lucy had thought – naively, perhaps – that the elves could control the weather and keep things warm. When she'd inquired about this ability, however, Ecthelion had snorted in disbelief and informed her quite unceremoniously that this never, ever happened. The more powerful elves – like the Lady Galadriel – **could** control the elements, but this was purely for aesthetics, and no one had time for aesthetics these days.

Lucy didn't like walking through the main gates, but her guards followed her everywhere, so she felt that sneaking in through the back was pointless. When she reached Glorfindel’s estate she pushed inwards on the door, her woolen cloak bunching around her arms as she leaned her full weight against the entrance.

The courtyard was the same as she'd left it that morning; vines covered in hoarfrost, leaves rattling across the cobblestone and the blacksmith working tirelessly at the forge. The stables were empty. The only horse still left in its stall was Lucy's, but _Ninnath_ was more of a pony than a horse, and she couldn't remove the mare without the guards stopping her. Once she'd recovered from the attack, Glorfindel had insisted that Lucy learn how to ride, but she wasn't allowed to do so unless accompanied by the elf lord. The ellon had flat out refused to teach her how to defend herself. Lucy wasn't allowed to handle knives, or anything that could be used as a weapon, and this was the one thing that the elf lord and Turgon seemed to agree upon.

"It will not be necessary." Glorfindel had said, his eyes blazing with determination and his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles popped. 'I will… I will protect you. I **promise**. It will not happen again."

Morwen had been of another mind entirely. Humans often were, Lucy was learning as the years dragged by. The minute the two of them had managed to secure a moment alone – in the bathroom, no less – the woman had pulled an object out from beneath her skirt, and placed a short, slender knife in Lucy’s hand.

"This." Morwen said with severity, looking Lucy straight in the eye. "Do you know how to use this?"

"No." Lucy had said. She didn't, but she wasn't afraid of knives. If anything, she was comfortable with sharp objects. The scars on her arms and legs proved it.

"You cannot beat them." Morwen had said. There was a fierceness about her in those days; a fervid sort of desperation brought on from prolonged stress and isolation. Her forcible separation from her youngest son had hit her hard. "You cannot outrun them. Orcs, too, and they will do much worse. If you are trapped by orcs, you cut your own throat, see? From ear to ear, like this. You must press **deep**." Morwen made an upwards slicing motion across her neck with her hand.

"Do not hesitate, or it will not work. With elves, you must get close. Let them grab you. Let them hold you. You are small, so they will think you will not fight back. Grip the knife like this, see? And stab in and up, beneath the ribs along the side, so the blade will not get caught in their armour. Sindar, they do not wear so much, but Noldor always do. Do not trust them, yes? They cannot protect you, despite what the Lord Glorfindel says. If they think you are the enemy, they will kill you."

Lucy agreed with Morwen’s assessment. She kept the knife on her at all times when Glorfindel wasn't there, hidden in the pocket of her skirt.

The older woman wasn't about when she returned, but as Lucy was climbing the steps to the keep, she caught sight of Aeloth walking past the entrance, a bundle of fabric held between her hands. Aeloth paused when Lucy entered, and for a moment the two of them just stared at each other in silence. The main hall was dark, lit only by the light from outside, and there wasn't much. Everything was cast in shades of blue and gray, the wind whistling mournfully through the open windows. They would shutter them once the snows came, and during the winter everything would be lit by lamplight.

"Where have you been?" Aeloth asked, her tone not so much frosty as it was reserved. There had been an odd sort of tension between the two of them since the creature had attacked, and Lucy thought it had something to do with the elleth's scars. While the rippled white tissue running along Lucy’s neck down to her breast had been a given, Aeloth was marred. A deep scar tracked its away across the right side of the elleth's face from where the creature had tossed her against the wall, and she'd gone blind in one eye; the injuries had never healed.

"I went to see Maeglin." Lucy told her.

Aeloth's expression pinched in displeasure, but she didn't reprimand her. Maeglin was her gaoler, after all, and Lucy was allowed to visit him. It caused a great deal of tension between the two houses, but Glorfindel's retinue didn't question it. From the ceiling one of the gilded lamps made a clattering sound as it swayed in the wind, and to Lucy it sounded like bones; the dance of bleached corpses.

_Doom of the Noldor,_ the chant always went. Death was coming to Gondolin, and out of all the things she'd read in the books, it was the one event Lucy had tried to warn the elves about repeatedly. They didn't believe her.

"This city will not fall." Turgon had said. "The future is imperfect. You are here, are you not? And that was not written in your **books**."

"Laurëfindil does not want you wandering outside the estate while he is gone." Aeloth demurred, snapping Lucy back to the present. Her tone was neutral, but it was still an admonishment. The rustle of silk between her hands was loud in the silence as she readjusted the bolt of fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Your lessons are in an hour. The princess will visit tomorrow."

Lucy wrinkled her nose in distaste and fought the urge to sneer. She hated Aeloth's lessons. She hated what the Noldor were trying to turn her into. Mummers they were, the whole lot of them. Lucy did not like to play pretend.

"Is Glorfindel back?" she asked, even though they both knew he wasn't. Aeloth gave her a long, even look of exasperation.

"Shortly." she finally admitted. "He is supposed to return on the eve, so long as nothing is amiss." She paused, then said, "When you go out, you are to wear the cloak he gave you. The blue one."

"But –" Lucy began in protest, and Aeloth quickly cut her off.

"No _buts_. You will wear it. You will catch cold, otherwise, and Laurëfindil will worry terribly."

Laurëfindil. It was always about Laurëfindil. Lucy resented Aeloth for it, but understood the obsessive focus: for her, everything was about Glorfindel too.

The elleth turned, disappearing up the stairs like a ghost. She left Lucy standing alone in the hall, watching as the shadows deepened in the corners. The world felt deserted and cold. There was not a hint of red in sight.

_Everything is red in Thangorodrim_ , Lucy thought, but didn't say so aloud. She remembered the cage: the barbed wires and constant screaming, the taste of her own flesh between her teeth. She was tired, but she didn't want to sleep. Always, Lucy was thirsty, and she wanted Glorfindel.

A year and a half. A year and a half was how long she’d been in Middle-earth, and in that time Tommy had become an absent shadow. Such was the fate of all things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	24. My Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 5, 2016

Lucy put Maeglin's gift on the top of her dresser once Aeloth had left. Then she reached into her pocket to withdraw the small knife that Morwen had given her, tucking that away under the mattress of her bed. She didn't like being without it, but it was rare that she was unaccompanied by the guards. Lucy didn't know if she'd have a chance to discard of it later. Once Glorfindel was back, he'd be too near, and if he caught her with it she'd be in trouble.

The wind whistled through the cracks of her closed shutters. Her bedroom was dark, lit only by the lamps and a thin sliver of light that came in from a slit-like window towards the top of her room near the rafters. Lucy shivered, drawing her robes more tightly around her. Her new bedroom was much smaller than first, but closer to Glorfindel's, so she liked it better. After the baramog's attack she hadn't returned to her previous chambers. Lucy would have preferred to stay in Glorfindel's rooms indefinitely – even sleeping on the floor with a blanket would have been preferable – but once she'd recovered, she'd been banished. She was getting older, Aeloth said, and Glorfindel was not married. It was extremely unbecoming of her to be spending so much time in his bedroom, and the rumors in Gondolin were bad enough. They didn't need to make them any more scandalous.

As she turned to go to her lessons, Lucy passed by the floor length mirror in the corner of her room. Briefly, she stopped to straighten her robes and fix her hair, her hand sliding over the spot on her neck where Maeglin had kissed her. She didn't care about her appearance that much, but the elves **did**. Aeloth would scold her if she showed up messy.

The face that stared back at her was much the same as it had been the year before, if perhaps thinner with age: still doll-like and very solemn, although she was remarkably paler. If Lucy stood amongst the snow, her complexion took on a bluish quality, and she had to pinch her cheeks to bring them to color. Lucy did so then, grimacing in the mirror as her hair came loose from its braids to tumble towards her hips. Those same hips were wider than they'd been the year before, her chest filled out. The elves had finally started letting her wear adult-styled clothes: voluminous and loose, with a girdle around her hips and a collar that dragged straight across the neckline. Her shoulders were almost bare.

The ash on her hand from the smoke man has finally faded some months ago, but her scars hadn’t. Time and again, Aeloth had tried to convince her to wear higher collars, but Lucy wasn't having any of it, as she wasn't ashamed of her scars. Watching her reflection in the mirror, she reached up, fingering the massive, healed-over contusion that rested there. The pale mark went from her jaw to her shoulder, where the baramog had ripped her open. Beneath the rise of her dress there were smaller, more-jagged scars along her left breast and ribs. On the nights when her dreams were the worst, they began to ache; during times like those, Lucy could almost imagine Mairon whispering.

The thirst rose in her then, and Lucy swallowed, massaging angrily at her throat. It was worse some days than others, and around certain people. The color red made it intolerable. She wanted to drink water at that moment, but knew it would do her no good. Always Lucy was hypersensitive to cold and to touch. It felt like there were fingers dancing along her spine, but she couldn't tell if the sensation was real or just a residual echo of Mairon. _Mairon._ She would think his name some days, but never say it aloud. Glorfindel said Maiar came when called, and Mairon was the sandman that haunted her dreams; the Rorschach ink blob that spread across the paper whenever she closed her eyes.

_Lucy,_ he crooned. _Why are you hiding from me?_ She didn't answer.

The shackles around her wrist glinted in the low light. Lucy glared at them, before lowering her arm and turning away. The bonds wouldn't come off. She'd tried to remove them several times over, but whenever she did she was struck by crippling migraines. Glorfindel could do nothing but stare at her sadly, and Maeglin refused to give her the key. She knew he might barter something for it – he'd hinted at it, once or twice – but she wasn't willing to give him _that_. Once Maeglin got his claws into something, he never let go. Noldor in general were relentless, and Sindar were vicious when provoked. He was both.

"You don't mean it." Lucy had told him one time. He'd grimaced, lips curling back to show his teeth.

"And what do you know?" he'd spat. "Mortals are **fickle**."

Everywhere, the shadows were watching. Lucy turned away from her mirror and stalked silently from the room.

* * *

"The Solstice will be held soon." an elleth named Eleiren said over the shriek of the wind, her nimble fingers working in and out of a piece of weaving to create the complicated shape of a bird. "It's a shame, that winter came so early. The weather has been horrible this year."

"I miss Valinor," one of the other ellith said.

"Will _she_ be there?" another elleth – Nimel – asked in Quenya, looked knowingly in Lucy's direction. The Noldo always spoke the tongue when she didn't want Lucy understanding. Unfortunately Lucy was around Glorfindel far too often, and he used Quenya so frequently she was beginning to grasp it well. Still, she didn't let the others know. The stupider they thought she was, the better.

Aeloth pulled her own thread between two pieces of pale blue silk. She gave the other elleth a loaded stare.

"Of course she will." she returned in Quenya. "She must get used to Court." Lucy picked at her own stitching in frustration, biting down on her tongue to keep herself from blurting out that she _knew_.

"She's still a child though, isn't she?" asked Nimel, pouting prettily as her long dark hair slipped over a narrow shoulder. Lucy knew from experience that the elleth didn't hate her, exactly. She **did** hate how close she was to Glorfindel, but when the ellon wasn't around that hate faded to ambivalence. If anything, she looked at Lucy like an object: an exotic animal to be observed in the zoo.

"Not exactly." Eleiren intoned with a knowledgeable smile, as if imparting some great bit of wisdom. Lucy knew for a fact that she was the first human that either of them had met. "Edain grow very quickly. I have heard amongst their kind, many her age already have children. Several, in fact."

"No!" gasped Nimel, miming shock.

"It's true." Eleiren said with a smart, self-satisfied nod, her long brown hair rustling down her front. Lucy bit down on her tongue and tasted bile.

Nimel turned to her, a benign look of mild curiosity on her face. "Does it bother you, that you will die so quickly?" she asked. Across from her, Aeloth gave the younger elleth a pointed stare.

"Does it bother you that no one cares if you **do**?" Lucy returned. Aeloth kicked her underneath the table, then, her foot striking against her lower shin. Lucy fell silent, gnawing on her bottom lip as she burned holes into her embroidery with the force of her glare. There was a rise of nervous twittering amongst the group as the ellith tried to gloss over the comment, but it was out there, naked and unwanted. Nimel's expression was icy, her hands stilled around her weaving.

Outside, the wind howled.

They were working in one of the few rooms that was not yet shuttered on Glorfindel's estate, on account that it was relatively well protected and overlooking the first-floor gardens. The room was long but somewhat narrow, adorned with a series of floor-length windows along the far wall. Through them Lucy could see the trees and hoarfrost that covered them, and beyond that was the tower that led to the front of the complex. The room was chilled, but not freezing, but this was of little comfort. Lucy was bundled in as many layers of robes as she could get away with, her fingers numb from the chill. She hated winters in Gondolin.

"Lucy, do not pull so hard." Aeloth said, leaning over to look at her work. "It will pucker the fabric."

Lucy bit down on her tongue even harder, and fought the urge to take her needle and drive it through someone's eye.

"Yes." she ground out, trying her best to behave herself; to act like the good little maiden that the elves were trying to make her become. _Remember Glorfindel,_ she told herself. She was doing this for him, but it was hard. Lucy hated needlework, and the Noldor veered towards the patriarchal. There wasn't a rigid division of the sexes, or a solid rule on who got to do what, but there was a definite emphasis on what was _appropriate_. The older she got, the more apparent this became. Lucy wasn't an elf, so she'd thought she'd be exempt from it. She was wrong.

"You need to learn needlework." Aeloth had said over six months ago, as she'd gone through Lucy's closet and tossed out all her child-like clothes. "Weaving, too. We cannot teach you cooking because of the knives, but singing lessons, perhaps. Maybe the harp. You have a good voice."

"Why?" Lucy asked petulantly. Aeloth had raised an eyebrow.

"You will reach your maturity soon. You must learn how to behave, at the very least, and you must understand how to run a household."

Lucy didn't hate singing, because she could do it, but she wasn't thrilled about the needlework and had told Aeloth as much. All Lucy wanted to do was spend time in Maeglin's mines or putter about his laboratory, watching him disassemble devices and putting them back together. Next to spending time with Glorfindel, _fiddling_ with tools had become her new favourite pastime. Maeglin said she had a steady hand, and a knack for taking things apart. She was a natural.

Aeloth had frowned in distaste at her preferred activity, holding up a bolt of silver fabric to Lucy's front to match the color with her skin.

"You will not spend your time learning how to "take things apart." the elleth had said. "If you wish to learn one of the arts, you may, but the Lord Maeglin's _contraptions_ are not acceptable. You will be of age, soon, with children of your own."

"I won't." Lucy had declared imperiously. "I refuse."

"Our people marry young." Aeloth had demurred, holding up a bolt of blue cloth instead. "You will too."

"I'm not _your people_."

Aeloth had shot her a warning glance. "Lucy," she'd said. "We have had this discussion before. I will not have you bringing shame to Laurëfindil's house, remember? It is time you settled in and learned some manners."

Lucy had scrunched up her nose in distaste. "But –"

"No _buts_." the elleth said, deciding on an indigo blue brocade that had complimented the color of Lucy's eyes. "You must learn how to behave, understand? To take care of the household and to care for your children, so that your husband does not want."

Lucy had all but choked on her disbelief. Then, she'd grown angry.

"Do you really think I'm going to get married once I'm older?" she'd spat. Aeloth had given her a blank, unimpressed stare as she'd waited for her to stop ranting. "Who would want to marry **me**? After what happened last year?"

"Lucy –"

"There are no Edain here, except for Morwen! None of you will let me leave, and you won't let other people in! Why do I have to get married? **Who** am I going to marry? I don't want to marry! I want to stay with Glorfindel!"

Aeloth had sighed in exasperation, then continued fitting Lucy's new dresses.

"It is the way of things, once you are old enough. Besides, it is not so bad. You like children, don't you? You've gotten much better with them, I hear."

Lucy had pouted and fiddled with the hem of her dress. She **had** improved, and she’d definitely softened to the notion of children, but she wasn't willing to admit defeat just yet. Her response had been churlish.

"Of course I like them." she'd mumbled, looking towards her feet. "But that doesn't mean I want to get married."

"There are no children without marriage." Aeloth had said, and Lucy had rolled her eyes.

"What if I don't want children?"

"You can, and you will. You are very lovely, Lucy. Your children will be lovely as well. Laurëfindil will not spoil you for much longer."

And Lucy **wasn't** spoiled anymore. The next day, she'd been forced to start her lessons with needlework. She wasn't bad with it, per say, but she lacked the imagination to create images within the cloth that the elves seemed so gifted with. When she did create pictures, there were always of mountains: of fire and ash and ruin, and creatures with whips. Lucy hated the lessons, and she hated the people she was forced to sit with. The ellith were important members of Glorfindel's estate: the daughters of minor nobles that had integrated into the House of the Golden Flower, under the tutelage of the elf lord's long-dead father. Most of them treated Lucy like an oddity at best, and a bug to be quashed at the worst.

A gust of wind whistled through the trees outside the windows, rattling the bare branches and making the ice fall off the pale bark in a noisy clatter. Lucy shivered, huddling up further for warmth. She wanted to hide in Glorfindel's room until he came back, but the heat always made her hunger worse. She swallowed thickly, trying to combat the dry feeling in her throat, but it was like thinking about Mairon; the minute _it_ came to mind, her thirst would return with a vengeance.

Hating her company, and hating the cold, Lucy stabbed down into her circle of fabric with more force than was necessary, worming her needle through the delicate silk even as Aeloth glared at her clumsy stitching.

Across the table, Nimel watched with a heavy-lidded gaze.

"Do you not like embroidery, Little One?" she asked. The way she said _Little One_ was more a slur rather than an endearment, like Glorfindel had used it when he'd first met her. Lucy shrugged and refused to look up. She had no time for Noldorin head games, and some of them were so bereft of mental stimulation that every sentence was loaded.

"It's fine." she bit out, in relation to the embroidery.

"You do not seem to be enjoying yourself." Nimel continued. Lucy stabbed down harder.

"Perhaps it's the company." she demurred. Aeloth reached beneath the table and pinched her. It was a warning.

"What **do** you like, then?" Nimel asked, her grey eyes hard. "You Edain are so odd, sometimes. I hear you like frolicking with dwarves."

"I don't know." Lucy drawled, getting more and more annoyed. She stabbed down into her fabric a second time. "I like eating mushrooms." another stab. "Not talking about stupid things." another stab, even harder than the last. "Being with _Glorfindel_." Nimel glared, but around the table the mood grew sombre.

"They say the orcs are getting closer." Eleiren said in a hushed tone, her expression fearful. "What if they find the city?"

"They won't." Aeloth said with assurance. "Laurëfindil will see to it."

Lucy wanted to have faith in him, but she knew the odds; had tried to warn the elves about it with ever increasing frequency, but Turgon was stubborn, and his nobles were too attached to the city. They would never evacuate Gondolin.

"This is my city." the King had nearly spat when Lucy had laid it out for him, bare for all to see. "The future is not fixed, and I will not be swayed by the warnings of a doomsayer. I will not bow to a fallen Maia. You tell your master **that**."

Lucy hoped that time wasn't fixed. Prayed for it, sometimes, and wanted to believe in Turgon's intractability, but it was for purely selfish reasons. This time, Glorfindel wouldn't die, she told herself. This time, she would save him.

* * *

Glorfindel returned late in the afternoon, just as the sun was setting behind the clouds and everything was overcast to the point of twilight. The ellith and Lucy were still at their needlework when the tell-tale clatter of horses' hooves sounded from across the courtyard.

Aeloth opened her mouth to begin speaking – to tell Lucy to stay put – but already Lucy was throwing down her work and scrambling away, barely remembering to excuse herself before she was barrelling down the hallway in a flurry of thick grey robes.

Her slipper-clad feet made a _tap tap tapping_ sound against the floor as she rushed through the main hall. When she emerged onto the front steps of the keep, the wind was picking up. In the courtyard, the horses were milling about in a haphazard circle as the soldiers began dismounting. Although many of them seemed to be splattered with what looked like tar, Lucy noted that no one seemed to be missing, which meant the patrol had been a success.

Glorfindel was at the front of the party atop his giant white charger – a stallion named _Fainhul_ , who seemed twice as large and infinitely more terrifying than his horse from the Third Age, _Asfaloth_. As the elf lord brought the creature to a halt, the stallion paced, his silvery harness jangling noisily as it glinted under the low light. Lucy watched as Glorfindel reached up, wiping away a bit of black tar dusting one of his cheeks, before he nimbly dismounted, his free hand patting his horse's neck.

Lucy was not one to stand on propriety when the elf lord was involved, but Glorfindel's horse was very big, and she was very nervous around it. Big animals in general made her anxious, ever since the baramog's attack. While Lucy had gotten better at riding her pony, she still tried to stay away from Glorfindel's charger whenever possible, even though he'd assured her again and again that it would not hurt her. It was only when he handed off the stallion to one of the grooms that Lucy rushed forward to meet him. As she did so, Glorfindel turned around and smiled. It was a soft smile, but a genuine one. He seemed a bit tired.

"Glorfindel!" Lucy exclaimed, reaching out and throwing herself at him. She felt his arms go around her as he planted a warm kiss to the side of her head. It only lasted a moment before he drew back. The elf lord was not so free in the ways that he touched her these days, and he almost seemed to restrain himself in public. Lucy didn't understand why.

Glorfindel's gloved hands went to either side of her face, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones. He frowned slightly as he did so.

"Why do you smell like Maeglin?" he asked. Lucy told him the truth.

"I went to visit him," she said, even as she tried to stop herself from bouncing up and down on the spot like an idiot. She was so excited. Glorfindel was home. He was finally **home**. She'd missed him so much it actually hurt. "He touched my hair. Then he told me to leave. He's in a bad mood, I think."

"Ah." Glorfindel said. Although his frown did not recede entirely, it faded somewhat; as if whatever unpleasant thought was bothering him had been shoved aside to be mulled over later. His gaze was tired, but still warm. "Have you been good?" he asked.

Lucy nodded enthusiastically, smiling wide as she clasped her hands over his. She wished he wasn't wearing his gloves – she liked the feel of his skin next to hers – but he'd been fighting, and she was just glad that he was back. Everything was better when Glorfindel was around.

"You did not give Aeloth any problems, this time?" he continued, when she nodded _yes_.

"No."

"No nightmares?"

"No." Lucy lied through her teeth. Glorfindel couldn't know. He would worry terribly, otherwise.

The elf lord _hmmed_ and ran a thumb across her left cheekbone, leaning down and planting another kiss atop her head. Lucy shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. Her skin felt like it was on fire, her nerves were so acute, and all she could sense in that moment was _Glorfindel_ ; warm and smelling like sunflowers, but overwhelmed by the hint of pine and snow. It was a distinctly Glorfindel smell, and when he leaned in to kiss her head, Lucy could hear it: the pumping of his blood through his partially exposed throat.

_Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it,_ but Lucy didn't. She didn't like sweet things.

"You are cold." Glorfindel murmured against her forehead, concern coloring his voice. His lips slid down further, his hands moving to cup the base of her skull. Lucy could detect a strange sort of urgency to his tone, and she got the sense that he was holding himself back. Over what, she couldn't say, but she knew that he was. "Go inside where it is warm." the elf lord commanded. "Wait for me there."

Lucy didn't want to, but she didn't feel like fighting him over anything these days, so she acquiesced without complaint. As she walked up the steps to the keep, she rubbed at her throat, swallowing hard. Thirsty. She was always so thirsty, but she never told anyone about it. Not even Glorfindel. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him worry.

* * *

Lucy went and sought Glorfindel out anyways, waiting half an hour before she made her way to his room. There was a narrow passage between Glorfindel's chambers and hers that was used by the servants: a small, nearly airless flight of stairs that ran from the top of the tower to the elf lord's bedroom, several floors below. Technically it was only meant to be used as a means of escape, but more often than not Lucy found herself commandeering it to travel about unaided. She liked the darkness it brought, and when she was hidden it meant less questions from Aeloth: less passive-aggressive sniping from Nimel and the other ellith on the nature of _propriety_.

Glorfindel was sitting on his bed when she emerged from behind a gilded tapestry; stripping off the last remains of his armour before unbuckling the leather bracers around his wrists. His back was hunched, his head bowed. He wasn't facing her, but the slope of his shoulders spoke of exhaustion, and the elf lord seemed noticeably subdued. The longer Glorfindel was away from home, the more morose he became. It didn't take him long to cheer up, however. Certain activities – like visiting Erestor – always brought a smile to his face. Lucy decided that she'd ask to visit the elfling the next day. Whenever she showed any interest in children, Glorfindel's whole countenance would light up with joy. The elf lord was very busy, but he would make the time for it.

"Did anyone die?" Lucy asked as she plopped herself down on the far side of the bed, the mattress wobbling precariously beneath her. Glorfindel shook his head, but didn't turn around.

"No." he demurred, and didn't go into specifics. He never did, and Lucy was sure it was only partially because of the King's orders. Glorfindel didn't like talking about anything morbid, but Lucy did. Without any hesitance she crawled across his bed, her skirts tangling around her calves as she awkwardly shuffled up behind him. When she got close, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her full weight against his back. She planted a quick kiss against his ear.

Lucy felt a full body shiver run through him. Then Glorfindel's lips were alighting on her jaw near the corner of her mouth. His left hand – free of its glove – tangled itself in her hair.

"I have missed you, Dear One," he said on a sigh, planting another kiss in the exact same spot as before. "I have missed you so much." Lucy hummed happily, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his. She loved it when he touched her. His movements were so effortless and familiar. _Practiced_.

"I was bored,” she admitted as he leaned against her in turn. Lucy planted another kiss to his ear, and then the elf lord was forgetting all about the rest of his armor, falling back onto the bed in a boneless heap and dragging Lucy with him. She went down willingly, sprawling across his chest as she reached over and ran her thumbs along his earlobes. Glorfindel's eyelids became heavy, his expression slightly drugged. The ellon loved it when she touched his ears. Lucy didn't understand it, but figured it was an elf thing.

"Did you kill a lot of orcs?" Lucy sing-songed. Glorfindel reached up, his fingers curling around her own ears as his thumbs ran along the rims. The ellon’s eyes were luminous in the low light, but very dark; almost indigo in color, and splattered with flecks of silver. He was so close that Lucy could feel his breath on her lips.

"Yes," he slurred, then added in a wondrous, slightly-befuddled sort of stupor "why do you ask me such things, Dear One? They are so morbid."

Lucy shuddered as he ran his thumb along the shell of her ear, and the elf lord tracked her reaction with a hungry gaze that she was more used to seeing on Maeglin. It wasn't so much the gesture itself that made her shudder, as it was that Lucy could feel the texture of his skin. His fingers were not as smooth as she'd once believed them to be, the pads of them slightly rough from constant sword work. Lucy liked them better that way. Liked the texture of _him_ , and wanted to get closer. When she leaned her full weight into him, her breast flattening against his front, Glorfindel's pupils grew so large they all but swallowed up the blue. One of his hands drifted away from her face to the small of her back, his fingers splaying wide and pressing down to hold her to him.

"I'm afraid you'll get hurt." Lucy admitted, in question to the orcs. She ran her hands over his ears, gripping them from behind and using her thumbs to massage the base. "I'm scared you won't come home."

The elf lord closed his eyes while she talked, as if listening to the sound of her voice. His ears weren't that different from a human's, when you got down to it: more delicate, and very sensitive, but oddly stiffer at the same time. The shells of them were slightly translucent towards the tips. Glorfindel was extremely self-conscious of how Vanyarin they looked, but Lucy thought they were beautiful. Everything about him was.

"I wish you didn't have to go," she admitted, somewhat sullenly. She tried to keep the discontent from her voice. "I hate waiting."

A shudder ran through the elf lord as she stroked his ears, the hand at her back pressing her harder against him. "So do I." Glorfindel mumbled, his eyes still closed, but he didn't seem inclined to explain himself. The hand on her spine slid down to rest against her hip. He seemed to have a preoccupation with them, and Lucy wasn't even sure he was conscious of it.

"I am sorry I missed your begetting day," he said, his eyes opening a crack. His voice was soft and thick. "I did not mean to."

"It's okay." Lucy said, leaning up to plant a kiss against the tip of his nose. "I'm just glad you're safe." She was. She would forgive Glorfindel for pretty much anything these days, so long as he came back in one piece. So long as he was **happy**. A happy Glorfindel meant the world to her, and whenever he was content all of Lucy's worries seemed to melt away, including thoughts of Mairon.

The ellon’s fingers curled in the fabric by her hips, pulling it up slightly. "I am sorry, Nimeleth." Glorfindel said, and Lucy shivered as his other hand came to rest on her opposite hip. The wind rattled against his shuttered windows. "When the war is over, we will go somewhere warm, I promise. I will take you to the sea."

Lucy had never seen the sea on Earth, let alone Middle-earth. She'd never even been more than a mile outside of Gondolin in the year and a half that she'd been there. Even though Lucy doubted the war would end in her lifetime, she was touched by the gesture. "Can we move there?" she asked with a grin. Glorfindel's fingers spread wide, his palms pressing flat as he stroked her hips through the fabric of her dress. The look he gave her was one of adoration.

"I will build you a house there," he said. "Along the coast of Arvernien."

Lucy slid her hands from his ears to his neck, massaging the sides. She tried to ignore the way his blood pulsed beneath his skin.

"You have too much money." she deadpanned, but Glorfindel didn't get the joke.

"My atar left me everything." he said, his expression guileless. Lucy adored him for it, but Cirhíl's words were haunting her, and Maeglin's bitterness was an annoying insect buzzing against her ear.

"Would you build me a house in Valinor, if you could?" she asked. Glorfindel _hmmed_ in confirmation. The hands on her hips pressed down, drawing her further against him.

"Yes." he said. "In the mountains, where my ammë is. Noldor cannot return, and mortals are not allowed, but I would take you there, if I could."

"Did you only come to Middle-earth because you were forced to?" she asked. Glorfindel nodded, confirming Cirhíl's words to be true. His hands continued their lazy circles against her hips, his fingers kneading at the flesh beneath the fabric.

"Yes." Glorfindel said, basking in their physical contact like a cat lazing beneath the sun. "Atar was a lord in service to Fingolfin, and he wished to depart. He died during the crossing. I had to leave with him, but I did not wish to."

"Why?"

"My ammë is in Valinor," he said, opening his eyes. They looked black, the blue was so dark. "My grandmother, and my grandfather, my aunts and uncles and cousins. I did not wish to leave them. And you, you said you would meet me –"

He did not finish the sentence, swallowing thickly, but for once Lucy pressed him on the subject.

"Why won't you tell me what happened _before_?" she asked. A small, sad frown crossed the elf lord's features. One of his hands came up to card away a stray lock of her hair.

"You mind is fragile now, Nimeleth." he said. "And you are still young."

"I'm an adult by Edain standards," she corrected triumphantly.

"I know. It does not matter."

It did, but Lucy knew if she pressed him any further he would get upset. She didn't want that. Instead she let her head rest beneath the crook of his chin. One of Glorfindel's hands went to the back of her crown, stroking her hair. The other stayed at her hip.

"It doesn't bother you, how they talk about your mother?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel shook his head, his fingers tangling in her hair. She couldn't see his expression from where he was lying, but she could feel the warmth coming off of him. It was a favourite topic of his, this notion of _family_. Whenever they visited Erestor, a wistful expression would come over his features; an odd mixture of covetous desire intermingled with delight. He wanted a child, Lucy knew. He wanted one desperately. The elf lord was lonely for the things he'd left behind, and so preoccupied with the Noldorin idea of _family_ that he seemed bereft without one. He should have stayed in Valinor.

"They have not met her, so they do not know." Glorfindel said, in relation to her question. "Besides, it is only a small group of Noldor that think that way. Turgon is my King, and he does not care that my ammë is Vanya."

Lucy didn't think it was a small group of Noldor that looked down on his Vanyarin roots, but she didn't have the heart to tell him that. He was so kind to everyone, but horribly self-conscious about how un-Noldorin he looked. Lucy knew that playing on his insecurities would be cruel, so she dropped the subject.

"Can we go to the orphanage tomorrow?" she asked. "To visit Erestor?" Glorfindel's hand tightened against her head, and he hummed in agreement. Lucy was rather ambivalent towards the subject of children – she neither hated nor coveted them – but Glorfindel loved it when she talked about them, so she always did. Lucy was good at molding her interests to other people's; good at changing into what they desired most, to keep them closer. Once she figured out what they wanted, she went for it.

"Of course." Glorfindel said, then added rather hesitantly "there will be guards." He knew she didn't like them, but Lucy told him she didn't care. It only made him happier.

"You should adopt him." Lucy declared, leaning back to prop herself on his chest with her elbows. "Erestor, I mean." It was the one subject she was adamant about, as she knew he'd be happier for it. Glorfindel had already explained to her a dozen times over why he wasn't allowed, but the elf lord loved children, and the elfling loved him. "Ask the King to make an exception. He'll let you."

Glorfindel's expression remained beatific, his eyes hazy and dark. "I cannot. One of his parents still lives. He must be returned to them."

"But you want children." Lucy said. The elf lord's hand tightened against her hip.

"I will wait." he said, and wouldn't elaborate.

Waiting, waiting, always waiting. That was all Glorfindel seemed to do these days, but in private he appeared to have even less patience. Lucy couldn't understand his urgency when he held her. She **wanted** to, so she could make him happier; was determined not to have any repeats of her disastrous first year in Gondolin.

"Can we go to the valley tomorrow, too?" she asked, then added before he could interject "with the guards, of course. Not far. To the river."

Glorfindel was still so euphoric at the casual mention of children that he nodded _yes_ without complaint. Lucy leaned down, pressing a kiss to his neck just beneath his jaw in _thank you_. The hand at her hip spasmed, and then the ellon was pulling her all the way on top of him, their legs tangling together. Lucy sunk into him gratefully, burying face against his throat.

If she listened hard enough, she could hear the thump of his heart, slow and steady and oh-so familiar; she could feel the pulse of his blood, pumping along the arteries in his neck. It made her hungry, this sound of _redness_ ; made her insides clench into painful knots, low in her belly; made her thirst for something she could barely describe and want him in a way she could barely understand. Lucy wanted Glorfindel to the point of symbiosis, and lying as they were right now, the world around them narrowed down to just him and her. Lucy wanted him happy, wanted them **both** happy, and she was willing to do anything to achieve it.

But the flesh; the way she hungered for it, and for him; the way she wanted to press her lips to his skin, to sink her teeth in and _rip_. Lucy wanted to have a part of him living inside her, to keep her company while he was away. She never told anyone about this urge, because she knew they'd kill her for it. Knew they'd think she was tainted, just like the baramog, and Lucy **wanted** to get better these days, even though she always dreamt of red-haired giants and triple-peaked mountains called Thangorodrim. She had a home in Gondolin. It wasn't perfect, but it was hers. Glorfindel was still safe.

_Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it,_ the voice said, but Lucy didn't like sweet things, and never had. She leaned in, pressing another kiss to Glorfindel’s neck directly over his jugular. She could feel him tensing beneath her as she did so. Then the ellon’s hands were on her hips, forcing them flush against his. There was a hardness pressing into her belly.

"Nimeleth." he breathed on a gasp. "Nimeleth, I will build you a house by the sea. We will live in the ever-summer."

There was no talk of the war, or the orcs in the mountains. For a moment, Lucy allowed herself to live in fantasy, to think that his promise would come to fruition. Her shackles were warm around her wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	25. The Ghost Brigade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 5, 2016

Her visit with the princess was moved to the next day, on account that Glorfindel was back and his time was extremely limited. Aeloth woke Lucy from her languid slumber by unceremoniously yanking her covers off the cot; puttering about the room in a single-minded, fastidious manner as she lit the lamps and drew back the curtains around her bed, before opening the closet and rifling noisily through the myriad of dresses to pick out her daily outfit.

Lucy groaned in protest and rolled over, burying her face against the pillow. "Five more minutes." she mumbled, shivering in the cold air.

"You would keep Laurëfindil waiting?" was Aeloth's lofty reply. Lucy gave her a beatific smile, although her eyes remained closed.

"He would wait for me forever." she hummed. Aeloth made a scoffing sound.

"No he will not." she deadpanned, and wouldn't elaborate. Lucy curled inwards, tucking her arms to her chest as she shifted towards the light.

"Five more minutes." she insisted sleepily. "If 'findel wants to leave now, he can get me himself." There was the loud rustle of brocade as Aeloth dragged something from her closet.

"Not dressed like that, he won't."

"But I **am** dressed."

"A lady does not show so much skin." Aeloth said with clear disapproval. Lucy knew she was talking about her bare legs, but still refused to move.

"M'not a lady," she mumbled. "m'Lucy." But Aeloth wasn't listening to any more excuses.

"Up." she said, rolling Lucy out of bed and dragging her to her feet. "Up. It is time to bathe." Lucy groaned again in protest. Aeloth dragged her to the bath anyways. The water was cold, and getting changed was colder. For once, Lucy didn't mind letting Aeloth dress her. She stood in the center of the room, shivering violently as the elleth pulled an indigo blue dress over her head. The sleeves were so long they dragged across the floor. Like most Noldorin dresses it was loose, tightened only at the hips by a pale gold and silver girdle. After the dress was donned, Aeloth helped her into a six-layered robe, the outermost one a soft sky blue decorated with white star motifs and edged in slate gray fur. There was no howl of the wind from outside, but it was cold in the room, and the rest of the estate promised to be even colder, so Lucy was grateful for the extra warmth.

"Will it snow today?" she asked, reaching up to rub at her throat to get rid of the sensation of dryness. Aeloth _hmmed_ , sitting her down on the stool in front of her mirror so she could braid her hair. In the year and a half that Lucy had been in Gondolin – almost two years, to be more accurate – it had grown out past her hips.

"Yes." Aeloth said, picking up a pale blue ribbon from Lucy's dresser and winding it into her braid as she worked. "Once the storms start, you are to stay inside while Laurëfindil is gone. We cannot risk you falling ill."

Lucy usually stayed indoors without prompting, but she was so ridiculously cloistered that the slightest mention of keeping her caged was enough to raise her hackles. The elves were becoming **more** protective, not less, as she got older; hoarding her, like a piece of ill-begotten treasure. She hated it.

"But it's just snow." she argued.

"You are no good with the cold." Aeloth countered, finishing off one part of the heavy braid and adding small silver bells to the other. "Edain are fragile. Especially the younger ones."

"No we're not!" Lucy exclaimed

"You are." Aeloth insisted. "Laurëfindil worries terribly about it. Here, lean back, see? So I can reach."

Lucy grimaced in distaste, but did so. Aeloth grabbed an errant lock of hair, weaving it into the complicated braid that hung all the way down her back. The elleth worked quickly while she was braiding, and was very practiced at doing it for others. A thought occurred to Lucy then, random but incessant.

"Did you have children, too?" she asked, scrunching up her nose as Aeloth pulled a bit too hard on her hair. "I mean, before you took care of Glorfindel?"

The elleth sighed heavily, a sure sign she did not want to talk about the subject. Still, she answered. Her pale face looked ageless in the low winter light.

"No." she said. "I have served the House of the Golden Flower since the very beginning. Before Laurëfindil, I took care of his father, and his father before that."

"And his father before **that**?" Lucy supplied with a cheeky grin, trying to mimic the elleth's lofty tone. Aeloth gave her hair a reprimanding tug.

"No. Laurëfindil's great-grandfather was one of The Awakened. There were no children before that. I was one of the first."

Lucy narrowed her eyes suspiciously, titling her head all the way back so she could look at the elleth head on. Aeloth pushed her head forward. "Look straight, please." she said. "I must finish your braid."

"Just how old are you?" Lucy demanded.

"Eons, child." Aeloth said with a sigh, tying Lucy's long braid off with a pale silk ribbon and an extra cluster of bells. "You are but a breath of air, and Laurëfindil is naught but a newborn." Lucy leaned forward and plucked Maeglin’s citrine pendant off her dresser, intending to wear it. Aeloth deftly removed it from her grasp and put it back.

"No Lucy, no yellow."

"But I like yellow."

"It does not look good on you," she said, picking up a delicate silver chain decorated with pearls and what looked like bits of silver instead. "You are too pale for it, and your hair is so dark. Blue is your color. Perhaps a bit of purple."

Lucy grimaced, but let her put it on anyways.

The march to the dining room was just as cold as Lucy had anticipated. As she walked she shivered, the bells in her hair jangling with each step. The elves took precautions where they could when it came to the winter weather, but Lucy had learned from last year's cold snap that this didn't mean very much in the end. There was no central heating on Glorfindel's estate, and the elves were poor judges on how cold things could get. They weren't so affected by it as humans. The previous winter, Lucy had spent most of her time hibernating beneath a mountain of blankets, and whenever she went anywhere it was always swaddled beneath a multitude of over-sized robes. This year, the weather promised to be even worse.

"Is it warm **anywhere** in Middle-earth?" Lucy asked. Beside her Aeloth shrugged, her gauzy veil whispering around her head. She'd taken to wearing one since the baramog’s assault. While she never talked about it, Lucy knew Aeloth was just as vain as the rest of the Noldor, and hated the way she looked after the attack. Everything was about beauty with them, along with a colloquial, encompassing feeling that they simply summed up as _life_. God forbid a person should get scars.

"In the south the winters are much milder." the elleth said. "But that is Sindar territory. Noldor are not allowed to go there."

"Because of the Kinslaying?" Lucy quipped. Aeloth turned to her and glared.

The dining room was just as cold as the hallway, on account that it was one of the few areas the elves had not boarded up. Like the weaving room it was facing the gardens, and as such was sheltered from the worst of the winds. Although the elves did not need it, Glorfindel had installed glass along several of the windows to keep in the heat; an exorbitant expense, Lucy was told with chagrin. He'd also renovated the room, knocking out the far wall so a hearth could be built, which allowed them to keep a fire going during the winter. Lucy knew all of this had been done for her benefit, so even though she still found the room to be frigid, she never, ever complained about it. Always, she tried to stay on her best behaviour for _him_. Glorfindel was a pleasure to be around when he was content, and Lucy loved making him happy. It made her feel needed, and she **loved** being needed. It meant people wouldn’t abandon her then.

Aearmarth was already eating when they arrived, as were several other elves from Glorfindel's household. Glorfindel himself was sitting in his usual spot, scrubbed clean of dirt and looking spotless. His hair was loose, tumbling towards the floor like some sort of elvish Rapunzel, and his robes were voluminous – so much so they made him seem exceptionally slender.

The elf lord was reading a scroll with one hand and eating with the other, and as per usual his breakfast consisted of nothing but sweets. Lucy knew Aeloth would give him heck for it. Sure enough, she did.

"The pastries are meant as a _garnish_ , Laurëfindil." she quipped. Glorfindel looked up, wide-eyed and disarmingly innocent, his hand and the aforementioned pastry paused halfway to his lips. He seemed like he was about to speak, but then his gaze alighted on Lucy. Glorfindel’s sheepish countenance faded away to be replaced by a smile. Lucy smiled back and strolled over to his side, plopping down in her seat and reaching across the table to grab a piece of fruit and a bit of bread. The ellon finished off his pastry and passed Lucy a bowl of what looked like porridge. Aeloth sighed and dropped the subject, sitting down next to her twin brother.

The rest of the meal passed in a companionable lull, punctuated by the soft murmur of conversation as Aearmarth discussed matters of governance with the other members of Glorfindel's estate. Every now and then, Aeloth interjected with the occasional blandly worded retort, but said no more. Lucy ate without talking, swinging her feet back and forth. She'd grown **out** in the past year, but she hadn't grown **up** , and elvish chairs were still too big for her. Throughout the meal she could feel Glorfindel watching her, his heavy gaze following her every move.

The plan for the day was rather simple, now that Lucy's lessons had been postponed: they would visit Erestor, and after that they would make their way down to the river for her outing. Once breakfast was done, Lucy was bundled up in her winter cloak, and they walked the short distance to the orphanage.

The sky was overcast with the promise of snow, the ground coated with ice, but the wind was minimal. Glorfindel was in a good mood that morning, but not very talkative, so he remained relatively withdrawn until they ran into Ecthelion, who was walking up the path towards the estate. The elf lord was accompanied by several of his guards. Ecthelion was dressed in blue again, as was his custom, and his intricately braided hair had been tucked away beneath the voluminous width of his hood. He peered out at Glorfindel from beneath the shadowed rim of it, his blue eyes bright to the point of glowing.

"Laurëfindil." he said, and Glorfindel smiled. "A word?"

Glorfindel's smile melted into a frown, and then in Quenya he said, "I'm busy."

Lucy – who was still pretending she didn't understand a word of it – simply waited by the elf lord's side, staring at Ecthelion with an innocent expression.

"It will not take long." Ecthelion insisted. Glorfindel's lips twisted in a way that made it clear that he wasn't interested in talking, but he acquiesced, falling into step beside the other elf lord. Lucy walked a bit behind them, on account that her stride was nowhere near as long as theirs. She didn't catch much of their conversation, as her understanding of Quenya was not thorough enough to make her fluent. She heard the word for "war" more than once, however, along with something about orcs and keeping the city hidden. The war was pretty much all the elves talked about these days, and for good reason. Gondolin was hidden, but their situation was dire: all it would take was for one lone scout to make it through the mountains and then back again for everything to be discovered. A siege would absolutely devastate the area.

The children's home was much the same as it had been before, and like most of the buildings in the city it was boarded up in preparation for the coming winter. When they approached the front gates, Lucy didn't look at the spot where she'd seen Mairon in the form of the smoke man. Even still, just thinking about him caused her thirst to rise. She swallowed hard, her hand flying to her throat. A moment later Lucy lowered it, hoping that Glorfindel hadn't seen the gesture. There was an ache in her belly that had nothing to do with food; a gnawing _hollowness_ that was getting worse the more time dragged on, and she didn't know where it was coming from. She was so hungry.

Ecthelion didn't leave them when they went inside. Glorfindel seemed obliged to keep acknowledging him until Erestor came out to meet them, accompanied by his nanny. As always, the elfling toddled pell-mell towards Glorfindel, eyes wide with excitement and hands grasping, asking wordlessly to be picked up.

Glorfindel did so without restraint, hoisting the child up beneath the armpits and planting a kiss to the side of his head. He settled him against his chest. Lucy caught Erestor watching her from over Glorfindel's shoulder. Although she didn't smile at him, she did wave. The elfling blushed and hid his face, but he seemed happy. He was much older than Lucy had thought he would be – ten years, to be exact – but he didn't look a day over three. He didn't act like it, either.

"It is the way of things." Glorfindel had said after a previous visit, his eyes shiny with moisture as he'd lost himself in memories that Lucy had no part of. "Our… our children stay children for much longer.”

“Isn’t that a lot of work, though?” Lucy had asked. Taking care of children for decades sounded exhausting. Glorfindel had looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. His hands had been shaking.

“It is joyous work.” He’d hedged, and Lucy had known he’d been hiding something from the way he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “They are… children are _life_. Eldar… our children are killed too quickly, now. They are taken from us, and there are not enough. You – Edain… Edain have **many** children, and they adapt. It is a blessing from the Valar, I think, to be able to do so."

Lucy thought Glorfindel was probably religious, but talking about the Valar was a taboo subject amongst the Noldor. He only ever brought it up in private.

When Erestor buried his head against the elf lord's shoulder, the ellon leaned down and planted another kiss against the side of his head. Glorfindel was so gentle with children, and so very patient. Whenever he was around them his entire countenance seemed to light up with joy. In the year and a half that she'd know him, Lucy's opinion on the elf lord hadn't changed: he would make an excellent father. If she managed to change things this time around, maybe he'd actually have them.

_No more balrogs_ , she decided. _No more death._ This time, Lucy was determined.

* * *

"Lucy, 'nother block." Erestor said.

"Okay." she answered, grabbing a wooden block from the nearby pile, painted bright blue with bits of Tengwar carved along the sides. She handed it to Erestor, who was sitting in her lap. His little feet rocked back and forth as he made happy humming noises.

Glorfindel was sitting across from them on the floor, watching them as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. He had that dopey expression on his face again: that soft, slightly _touched_ look that meant he was deep in fantasyland. It seemed to pop up whenever Lucy was holding children. Lucy usually wasn't allowed near children because of the incident with Mairon, but Erestor was comfortable with her now, and she was allowed to hold him so long as Glorfindel was within arm's reach.

"Lucy." Erestor chirped, holding out a small hand. He didn't look at her. "Block."

Lucy handed him his block without a word. Erestor went back to building his castle, completely uncaring of her arm wrapped around his middle. No one had thought she'd be good with children, but Lucy was surprisingly adept at handling them on the account that she was extremely childish herself. She thought on their level, and made no attempt to act like a "big elf," as Erestor so aptly put it. They were equals, in this regard. She also loved soft things, and babies were soft all over.

"'nother block, Lucy." Erestor said. Lucy decided to be done with it, grabbing the whole pile of blocks and dragging them over to his makeshift castle. The elfling made a gasping noise and waved his arms frantically, trying to push them away.

"Too many, Lucy!" he said. "Too many, put them back!"

"But this way's **better**." Lucy declared. Erestor's expression was comically offended, his little nose scrunching upwards as he grimaced. Glorfindel kept on staring, slack jawed and eyes dark.

"Your way is stupid." Erestor said. He grabbed one of the blocks from her pile, but shunned the others. "My way is better."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is! You have'ta be careful when you build castles. Blocks have to be in right place. That's what ada says. I going to be a builder, just like him."

Lucy – who knew Erestor wasn't going to build anything, ever, and would end up being the advisor for Elrond's household instead – simply took one of the blocks and placed it on the tip of her nose, tilting her head backwards for balance.

"Okay," she sing-songed. The elfling – deciding that he'd won the argument – went back to building with a self-satisfied expression on his face.

Glorfindel's eyes were almost black, his pupils blown out. His right hand was twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch them, but he didn't. Over to the side, Ecthelion – who still hadn't left – was alternating between staring at the elf lord, then at Lucy and Erestor. His arms were folded across his chest, his fingers drumming against his biceps. Finally he seemed to be able to stand it no more, and he pushed himself off the railing he was leaning against, thumbs hooking around the rim of his belt and his stance aggressive. His expression was a mixture of wariness and concern.

"Laurëfindil, a word?" he said. It wasn't a request.

Glorfindel was so out of it that he ignored him at first. Ecthelion snapped his finger and repeated the question, his tone sharp. The ellon jumped at the noise then, blinking hard and looking around with a befuddled expression. It was almost like he was coming out of a trance.

"Pardon?" he mumbled.

Ecthelion sighed and reached down, grabbing him by the collar to yank him to his feet. "Come here," he groused. Glorfindel let out an inarticulate sound of protest and made a half-hearted motion in Lucy's direction.

"But, I cannot –"

Ecthelion snapped his fingers again, this time at the guards, then pointed to Lucy. "Watch her," he said. They stepped forward to do so. The Lord of the Fountain then dragged Glorfindel all the way to the front entrance, and once they were there he began berating him, gesticulating wildly in the air with his hands. Erestor ignored the commotion and continued playing. Lucy – whose hearing was definitely not as good as the child's – leaned down to speak next to his ear.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" she whispered.

"Yes." Erestor chirped, grabbing one of her hands and opening her fist to make her hold a block. Lucy did so without complaint.

"Can you tell me **what** they're saying?" she pressed.

"They speaking in Quenya." Erestor said, pronouncing _Quenya_ with a bit of a lisp. He added another block to his meticulous toy castle. "I don't know the words."

Lucy pouted and rested her chin atop Erestor's head. He had such soft hair. Glorfindel had soft hair too, but there was something about baby hair that made Lucy want to bury her nose in it and run her hands along the strands. She loved the texture of soft things; the sense of contentment it brought her.

"Lucy." Erestor whined, squirming sideways in Lucy's lap. "Lucy, lean back. You too heavy."

"Sorry." Lucy said, and she did so. Over by the entrance, Ecthelion was still berating Glorfindel. The golden elf was looking towards the ground, anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck.

"S'ok." Erestor said, his past hurts already forgotten. "You soft and squishy, like my nana. I like your lap." There was a pause, then a faintly defiant "but 'findel is nicer."

"I am not _squishy_!" Lucy said, utterly affronted. Erestor turned around and glared at her in an imperious way that only elvish children could muster.

"Are too!" he said. He reached out, poking and prodding at her middle with his tiny hand. "See? Squishy! Squishy! Just like nana."

"I am not your nana." Lucy said. She wanted to add _your nana is dead_ , but fought the urge to do so. Erestor frowned. His expression became more contemplative, his little hand resting against her middle as he eyed her.

"Are you someone else's nana?" he hedged.

Lucy shook her head. "No." she said.

“Well, you feel like a nana.”

“I’m not.”

"'findel likes you, like my ada likes my nana." Erestor declared, turning around and settling himself all the way back on her lap. His little legs stuck straight out like dainty toothpicks, his feet rocking back and forth. Lucy re-wrapped her arms around his middle, resisting the urge to squeeze him with delight. "You can't take him 'way, though." the elfling continued. "'findel mine first."

"I'm not taking him anywhere. We live together."

Erestor wrinkled his nose in thought, his tiny fingers reaching up to trace the line of Lucy's fingernails where they met her skin. "Promise?" he asked.

"Promise." Lucy agreed. She wouldn't take him anywhere. _No more balrogs,_ she thought, but didn't say so aloud.

"Does findel have children?" Erestor asked. Lucy knew where the conversation was going, as they'd had it many times before. She understood the child's insecurity, as she didn't like **not** being first, either. She was also greedy.

"No." she said, reaching up and mussing his hair sideways, before planting a quick kiss on his temple. "You're his favourite."

Erestor tilted his head back until he was looking at her upside down, his expression self-satisfied and happy. "I know." he said. Lucy knew that her words had helped. "You not as nice as 'findel." Erestor continued without pity. "But you are soft. I like your lap." His grin grew wider. "'findel is the best." Lucy definitely agreed with that, and nodded her consent before planting another kiss against his forehead. She was good at understanding selfishness, and knew just what to say to make others feel better in concerns to that.

"Yes, he is." she said.

Erestor's smile grew wide enough to show his teeth, and then he was arching against her, reaching up with open arms.

"Hug." he demanded. Lucy obliged under the ever-watchful eye of the guards, her shackles clinking and the bells in her hair jangling as she turned him around and lifted him up beneath the armpits, settling him against her chest. Immediately the child began running his hands along her scar. He seemed fascinated by the texture of it: smooth in some places but bumpy in others, where they'd been forced to hold the wound together with sutures.

"Want to see Glorfindel?" Lucy asked. Erestor nodded.

Lucy stood with the child in arm, albeit awkwardly. Erestor was small for his age, but elvish children were much larger than human ones. It didn't take long to walk to the elf lords, but they were standing near the front door. The air was noticeably cooler, and as they approached Lucy shivered, goose bumps erupting along her skin.

The ellyns turned to look at them. When Glorfindel saw her holding Erestor, his entire expression softened. Lucy hiked the child up her hip, putting her hands beneath his armpits as she prepared to hand him over. Erestor squirmed.

"Here." she said. "Your turn." The blue in Glorfindel's eyes had been returning, but when she spoke his pupils blew out until his eyes were essentially black. Lucy didn't comment on his obvious fixation with her and children, because it made him happy, but she definitely didn't understand it. _Another one of his elf things_ , she decided. He was peculiar like that, but Lucy was sycophantic enough to oblige him.

Ecthelion saw Glorfindel's reaction. When he did he rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before he threw up his hood and stalked from the room, savagely slamming the door. A gust of cold air came in with his departure, and Lucy shivered. She crossed her arms over her chest as soon as Glorfindel had taken Erestor. The ellon brought the elfling up high, planting a kiss on his cheek. Erestor squirmed until Glorfindel let him settle against his chest, and then the elf lord held him close, his slim hand stroking the child's back.

"Are we leaving soon?" Lucy asked. Glorfindel made a happy humming noise of consent, his voice taking on a delirious cadence. His gaze was hazy.

"Five more minutes." he mumbled, sounding drugged. He was holding Erestor, but he hadn't stopped staring at Lucy. She nodded and gave him the time. Lucy would give Glorfindel pretty much anything these days. He meant everything to her, and she loved him.

* * *

The path they took towards the river wound its way out of Gondolin's front gates, through the alpine meadows and past the tilled fields that surrounded the base of the city. The particular spot where they were headed was in the foothills that came just before the mountains, where the river cut through the rock in a sharp, narrow gorge before traveling west, deeper into the wilderness.

It took them half an hour by horseback to reach their destination, and as they approached the alpine meadows gave way to copses of pine trees packed thick as needles, tall and jagged that weathered the winter winds well. Even from a distance, Lucy could see ice covering their branches, and beneath the hooves of Glorfindel's charger, there was a light dusting of snow. It was bitterly cold out, and every now and then random snowflakes began to fall, as if desperately trying to start a storm and failing. Lucy was not happy about it. In Gondolin, snowstorms lasted for weeks. Once the winter came, the city was stranded.

Glorfindel's hand was a heavy weight against her waist as he held her in place atop his horse, her legs slung sideways across the saddle as she sat in front of him. Fainhul's head was slightly lowered in relaxation, his great hooves churning up the earth as he made his way towards the tree-covered gorge. The stallion's mane dragged downwards in a shimmering white wave, and although Lucy wanted to touch it, she didn't, as the animal made her nervous. She'd wanted to ride her pony before they set out, but the elf lord had told her _no._

"Why not?" Lucy had asked, trying – and mostly succeeding – to keep the whine out of her voice. Glorfindel had turned his head to look at her, pausing momentarily as he'd saddled his horse. His expression had been guileless and open.

"I wish to ride together." he'd said, his eyes wide and owl-like. "I do not see you often enough." Lucy had blushed and stopped complaining, because she didn’t see him enough either. She was lonely. Still, the animal made her nervous.

A frigid breeze briefly wound its way through the area. Lucy shivered, clutching at Glorfindel's arm. He leaned forward, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of her face, and as he did so a tumble of golden curls escaped from his hood. His own cloak was grey and woolen, edged with fur that looked suspiciously like a wolf's.

"Are you cold, Nimeleth?" he asked. Lucy nodded, hiding her face behind the fur of her mantle as she burrowed herself into the circle of his arms.

"A bit." she admitted. Even though her senses were sharper these days – and maybe because of it – she was still extremely susceptible to falling ill.

The hand at her waist moved down, sliding beneath the edge of her cloak to rest against her abdomen. The pressure of his hand brought about a strange fluttering sensation in her belly, and it became even worse when his thumb began to move back and forth, stroking her in languid movements through the thin fabric of her dress. Walking over a patch of rocky ground made slippery by the ice, the horse swayed. When it did Lucy swayed too, letting out a sharp gasp.

Glorfindel pulled her to him, his fingers splaying across her front. Lucy put her hand over his, squeezing hard.

"What were you and Ecthelion talking about?" she asked. The hand on her belly moved down farther, coming to rest against her pelvic cradle. The elf lord pressed a kiss to the side of her head through her hood. Lucy didn't think he would elaborate – Glorfindel never did – but she felt like she had to ask him anyways. There was something odd about his behavior today, beyond the usual.

"Nothing important." Glorfindel demurred. About thirty yards behind them, Lucy could hear the jangle of the horse harnesses belonging to the guards.

"Will you go out again?" Lucy asked, thinking of balrogs and orcs and three-peaked mountains. Glorfindel leaned his head against hers, the gloved hand that had snuck beneath her cloak moving in soothing circles against her front. His touch was tender, and it was making it insanely hard to concentrate.

"Yes." he mumbled against her hood, the clack of the horse's hooves slightly muffled by the snow. More snowflakes had begun to fall, alighting on his hair like gossamer. "In the next several days, most likely. I will talk to the King, to see if my duties can be shifted to the defense of the city, as they were before." The hand on her belly became more insistent. "I do not… I do not wish to be away for long."

Lucy approved of this. She was insanely sheltered, but the ironic thing about it all was that she wasn't really the one in danger. Glorfindel had a death clock ticking down, and the less the elf lord ventured out, the better. Lucy's hand squeezed his. As she did so she felt the ellon shiver, his breath hitching in a gasp as he shifted forward to press his front against her back.

They neared their destination soon enough. Lucy wasn't allowed to go far, and never anywhere unescorted, but this wasn't too much of a problem. Her favourite spot was a winding bend, where the river narrowed into a stream and the earth rose up into great rocky slabs. During the summer the area was lush and green, the grass thick with wildflowers. The copse of trees and the bend in the river were cold and gray now, but Lucy still liked them. She wanted to hide amongst the fir trees; to wander in between the snowy branches, if only to give herself the illusion of privacy. There was no ice on the stream, yet, but there would be soon.

Glorfindel's guards hung back once they reached the bend. The elf lord dismounted with a disconcerting amount of ease. Lucy wanted to try climbing down herself, but Glorfindel wouldn't let her. She knew he was terrified of her falling. Once he’d deposited her onto the ground, Lucy dusted herself off and strolled into the copse of fir trees with a casual, meandering gait. The storm had finally started and the snow was falling, the flakes thick and heavy and large. They wouldn't have long in the woods before the flurry hit full force, and Lucy didn't want to waste any time exploring.

"Do not go far." Glorfindel said from somewhere behind her, while he made sure Fainhul's bridle wasn't dangling. Lucy called out "alright," then struck out amongst the trees. Her skirts made a soft swishing sound against the inch layer of snow that coated the ground, the air muffled by the denseness of the trees and the snowflakes that were beginning to fall with increasing regularity. Even the bells in her hair seemed muffled, their light tinkling sound dulled down to an eerie hollow.

Around her the trees stood out like toothy sentinels. There was a stillness to the grove that seemed unnatural; an eerie _looming_ that reminded Lucy of the quiet before the storm. Nothing stirred between the branches, but the tightening beneath her breastbone and the tensing in her belly made her think something was there. There shouldn't have been, because they were too close to Gondolin, but none of the elves had sensed the baramog, either. Not until it had chosen to reveal itself. The thought made her sick.

Lucy paused, standing still as she looked around her. Nothing. There was nothing there, but what if there was? _Glorfindel will save me,_ she thought immediately, but didn't quite believe it.

Lucy craned her head back, looking towards the sky. Her hood fell down in the process, her braided hair tumbling past her hips. Above her the trees seemed to converge in a dizzying spiral, and the clouds were dark with the storm. Abruptly, Lucy was struck with the urge to fall backwards and make a snow angel, but there wasn't enough snow for that yet.

A shadow loomed then, and Glorfindel was suddenly leaning over her. His eyes were very blue as he met her gaze: sapphire coloured, and luminescent. Everything about him was gem-like.

"What are you looking at?" the elf lord asked with obvious confusion. Lucy gave him a tight smile.

"The sky." she said, thinking of the calm. "It will storm."

The confusion deepened.

"It is already snowing."

Lucy's lips twisted in a grimace and she looked down, stepping away from him and striking out on her own once more. "That's not what I meant." she said, and this time it was **her** turn not to elaborate.

Glorfindel followed a few paces behind her, letter her walk where she pleased. They persisted like this for several minutes, with Lucy going on about what she'd been doing while he was away, and Glorfindel listening without responding. He liked to talk, Lucy knew – especially to her – but he was extremely careful about what he said, and this came less from Turgon's orders and more from a stifling desire to protect her. Lucy didn't like being cloistered when there was no one to keep her company, but she still let him do it, as keeping her confined and cosseted seemed to bring the elf lord a great deal of relief. To fill in the lulls of his silence, Lucy talked about other things. When the river froze, she said, she wanted to go walking on it.

"Tommy and I tried to go skating once," she told him. She held out her arms with her palms turned upwards, trying to catch some snowflakes. Just beyond the thicket of trees, the river churned, sluggish and barely moving. "Tommy fell a lot, and the skates pinched my feet. I didn't like it, but I want to try again. Maybe it will be different here."

"I do not know what _skating_ are." Glorfindel said. Lucy scrunched up her nose, the bells in her hair jangling as her braid swayed against her hips. She tried to think of a good way to explain it.

"You put blades on your feet, so you can move really fast across the ice." she began.

"I do not like ice." The ellon said suddenly. He sounded extremely distressed in a faint, muddled sort of way. "It is cold and dark, and when you fall it… it grinds your bones between the cracks. Beneath it, you can see them drowning. They bang on the water, but it does not break, and you must step over –" He stopped himself, as if suddenly realizing what he was saying. An awkward silence followed.

"I am sorry." Glorfindel said eventually. His voice cracked on the last word. "I did not mean to –" He couldn't finish.

Lucy turned around to look at him. Even with his naturally porcelain complexion, the elf was looking rather pale, rubbing at his throat and swallowing heavily. He was visibly upset.

"Are you alright?" Lucy asked him. She couldn't keep the concern out of her voice. Glorfindel looked to the side in a skittish manner, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.

"I am fine." he finally managed to say, but Lucy knew he wasn't. Then two and two clicked together, and in a spark of understanding she remembered _The Helcaraxë_ from Tommy's books.

None of the Noldor liked to talk about it. Even the mere mention of The Grinding Ice seemed to bring about a collective sort of trauma, full of curses and threats and _how dare the Fëanorians desert us._ Glorfindel didn't like talking about the Fëanorians in general, but he **never** mentioned the dawn of the First Age, as it seemed to fill him with crippling grief. Lucy was smart enough to realize that it had been an especially hard time for him; that he'd suffered some sort of traumatic loss that he'd never recovered from. Sometimes, she thought he was still in mourning.

"I won't go on the ice," she said quickly. Glorfindel's gaze went back to her. "I promise."

The elf lord swallowed thickly, and murmured a quiet "thank you." Lucy smiled warmly, trying to make light of the situation through sheer force of will alone.

"Anything for you." she said flippantly, thinking it would cheer him up. But Glorfindel's quick glance turned into full on staring, and soon he was just standing there in the clearing, his expression bordering on shock.

"Glorfindel?" Lucy pressed, worried by how still he'd become. When he didn't respond she quickly stepped forward, reaching out with both hands. He watched every movement with rapt attention, and soon the shock on his face faded to resemble entrancement. The glade around them was so quiet. All that could be heard was the muffled fall of the snow.

"Laurëfindil, what's wrong?" Lucy asked, using his real name. Glorfindel always responded to it, and sure enough a visible shudder went through him at the mention of _Laurëfindil_ , a gasp of air being sucked through his teeth. A moment later the tips of his fingers alighted on her cheek with agonizing slowness. Lucy blinked at the contact. There was something strange about it this time.

"You look like you did before," he said in Quenya, and Lucy understood him. His hand trailed down her jaw to her neck, past the clasp of her cloak to rest against her collarbones. His eyes were almost black, his pupils were so big. "The same age," he mumbled, and his hand slid beneath her cloak, running along her partially bared shoulder. "The same _shape_."

Still silent, Lucy took his wandering hand and held it to the center of her chest between her breasts, watching as his eyes grew darker still. Nothing separated them except for her clothes, but even that seemed unbearable. She clenched her fingers around his palm as she desperately willed him to feel the beating of her heart. It was his.

"What do you want, Glorfindel?" she asked. It was an utterly honest question. "I'll give it to you. I promise."

The elf lord swallowed visibly as he stared at his hand on her chest. He never asked for anything unless it concerned her safety, but Glorfindel desperately wanted something now, and Lucy was determined to figure out what it was and give it to him. She would **kill** for it.

"You should not ask me that, Dear One," he said rather shakily. "I do not… I do not think you know what it means."

"But I want you to be happy." Lucy said rather bluntly, becoming frustrated with his reluctance. A flush spread across Glorfindel's cheeks. His lips parted, his breathes turning shallow.

"Happy?" he mumbled. "I am… it is not…" The hand on her chest curled inwards, his gloved fingers slipping beneath the collar of her dress to absently explore her skin. Lucy let him, watching the elf lord's expression as his fingers moved across her flesh until they got to her scar. He began tracing the silvery path as if in a trance, her dress dragging down with the movement to reveal the upper curve of her breast. The weather was cold, but Lucy didn't feel it. There was a fluttering sensation in her belly: a hunger that was driving her insane and a ravenous desire to be _filled_. Glorfindel's expression was similar to Maeglin's in that moment, but there was something odd about it. Deeper, and utterly obsessive.

Lucy put her hand over his and held it to her breast, letting him cup the heavy curve. Glorfindel shuddered and whet his lips.

"Is this what you want?" Lucy asked, trying to keep her voice neutral as she let him fondle her, but it wasn't working. She didn't know what _this_ was, exactly – she couldn't quite put it into words – but she could feel it.

"It feels the same." Glorfindel said in a hush. His fingers spread, cupping her further. He sounded utterly out of it. "It feels the same as before."

" **What** happened before?" Lucy asked. She needed to know. The elf lord didn't answer. Then his eyes narrowed, and like a dog catching a scent on the wind Glorfindel jerked his head up. He glared furiously towards the trees where they were the thickest, towards the rocky gorge.

Lucy didn't have time to process what was happening, he moved so fast. One moment she was standing in front of him, and the next Glorfindel was grabbing her arm and pulling her backwards, throwing her to the ground in his haste to get her out of the way. A small dirk was removed from his belt, and the blade went flying, the metal singing in a quicksilver arc through the air.

Before it could land, a blue blur emerged out of the trees, knocking it aside as it rushed straight at the elf lord. Glorfindel decked the intruder across the chest with a furious scowl, and they went down in a clatter of armour. Immediately a second blue blur emerged. Glorfindel drew his sword. Lucy was still reeling from the sudden movement, but she could tell that whatever had attacked them hadn't been an orc. Then the second blur of blue was upon them, moving even quicker than the elf lord.

There was no clash of swords, nor the grinding of metal, but suddenly Lucy heard Glorfindel let out a gasp. In an instant, all movement ground to a halt.

A strange ellon stood in front of them, holding a great curving blade to the elf lord's neck. He was the same height as Glorfindel and just as slender, but the ellon's hair was pitch black and braided with gold. He had a pretty face and bright blue eyes, and despite his complexion was distinctly Noldo. Behind him two dozen elves melted out of the woodland copse; all heavily armed and clearly foreign, their silver helms crests in an arc. It took Lucy less than a second to realize that the elves weren't from Gondolin, and judging from Glorfindel's reaction they shouldn't have been there at all. _Intruders_.

Glorfindel dropped his sword and fell to his knees, his hair tumbling across the snow in a golden wave as he bowed his head.

"My Liege, forgive me." he gasped, sinking low in deference. Behind them, Glorfindel's own guards – who had come rushing forward at the commotion – bowed too. The strange elf with the golden braids blinked once and tilted his head like a bird, eying the elf lord with interest.

"One of Turgon's lords, I take it?" he said. Then he lowered his own sword, a friendly – but extremely distant – smile on his lips. The ellon was visibly on edge, and there was black tar splattering his boots and leggings. "My apologies." he continued, the gold in his hair tinkling like wind chimes. "We came upon orcs in the gorge. It startled my guards." He paused. There was slightly contemplative tone to his voice as he eyed Glorfindel further, kneeling wide-eyed on the ground. "I have seen you before, haven't I?"

"Laurëfindil, My Liege. From the House of the Golden Flower." Glorfindel supplied shakily. Lucy eyed the two of them, desperately wanting to flee. She wished she'd brought Morwen's knife with her. She wished she could do **something**. Being helpless was terrifying.

The strange Noldo let out a shout of surprise at Glorfindel's name, and then he grinned. It was a true grin; still slightly distracted, but much more open and genuine.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I remember you now. Forgive my. Vanya blood is strong the first generation or so, so I did not take you to be Noldo. It's the same with my niece – she looks just like her mother."

"Yes, My Liege." Glorfindel choked out. The dark haired elf with the golden braids grinned wider still. With a quick, effervescent gesture, he motioned for Glorfindel to stand. The elf lord didn't.

"Will you not stand?" the strange ellon asked. Glorfindel still wouldn't look up. Lucy did, and glared, but the stranger ignored her.

"No, My Liege." Glorfindel said. "I raised my sword. It was a grievous error."

"It is done," the ellon said, and suddenly there was a hardness to his tone beneath the friendly nature. "You will not worry about it any longer. I am telling you to stand."

The elf looked oddly like Turgon, of all people; he had the same shaped eyes, the same tilt to his cheekbones and the same bow to his lips. If Lucy looked hard enough, she could even see traces of _Maeglin_ in him. Glorfindel stood, but with obvious reluctance. When he did Lucy didn't miss the way that he subtly shifted his weight to stand in front of her, hiding her from view. From the way the other ellon's gaze moved to hers, she didn't think the stranger had missed it either.

With an errant wave, the elf raised his hand and made a gesturing motion with his fingers. When he did even more blue-clad elves whispered out of the trees, all of them armed for war. Most of them were splattered with that same black, tar-like substance, and one soldier was actually injured, limping heavily with his arm slung around the shoulders of another. His thigh had been cut open.

The ellon in front of them was pale as a ghost, save for the faint flush that dusted his cheeks from the chill. "Now, tell me." he began. His tone was friendly, but Lucy knew it was a command. "Where is Turgon? I need to speak to my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Ada – Daddy
> 
> Nana - Mummy


	26. Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 11, 2016

His name was Fingon.

He was Turgon's older brother, the High King of the Noldor, uncle to both Idril and Maeglin, and it took Lucy less than five minutes to realize the elf didn’t give a damn about propriety when he really, really wanted something, and he was in Gondolin to get it. When she realized who the stranger was, Lucy did a strange little sucking motion with her cheeks to try and even out her breathing, her chest tightening with panic, because she **knew**. She knew he wasn't supposed to be there, and oh fuck, fuck, time was breaking again, and she wasn't sure if she could stop it. The notion that she could stop anything was laughable. The whole situation abruptly nosedived off a cliff.

Turgon seemed to agree with her in this regard. When Fingon strolled into the Council Chamber, dragging Glorfindel, Lucy and all the guards with him – for "emotional support," he chimed – Turgon flipped. Lucy had never seen him angrier.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" the King all but screamed, looking very much like a giant pink beet dressed in russet silk robes, his face was so red. He'd been dealing with matters of state, and on duty with him that day were the elf lords Egalmoth, Salgant, Duilin and Rog. The King of Gondolin tossed the scroll he'd been holding to the floor; a chair was kicked to the side. Salgant flinched.

"Brother!" Fingon exclaimed, his arms outstretched as if for an embrace, still armed to the teeth and splattered with tar. "How do you fare? Where is my hug?"

Over by the dais, Duilin sighed and put his head in his hands. Turgon stood by his chair, quivering in rage, his normally stony face mottled with color.

"What are you doing here?" he insisted. Fingon's smile remained friendly and unconcerned.

"To visit you, of course. It has been awhile."

"You are High King! What about your lands?"

"They're burning, like everything else these days."

"Then you should be there!"

"I will go back," Fingon assured him. "But first, there are very important matters we must discuss. Honestly Turukáno, you worry too much."

"It is **winter**. If you do not leave this instant, you will be stuck here for the season."

Fingon paused in his march towards the dais at this news, and blinked owlishly, as if he hadn't thought that part through. "Oh." the High King said, and then he was moving forward again, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I'm sure they'll be fine for a few months. Maglor is watching them for me. Maitimo was busy."

"Maglor?" spluttered Turgon, and then his expression was downright furious. "Maglor?! No! **No**! No more Fëanorians! You will get nothing from me! I refuse!"

"But I haven't even asked you yet."

"NO!"

"Come now, that's no way to talk about our cousins." the High King soothed, and then he was on the dais and opening his arms wide. His smile was even wider. "Alright. Where is my hug?"

Turgon just stood there, tight lipped and quivering. Fingon hugged him anyways; squeezing Turgon so tight he lifted the taller elf a few inches off the floor before putting him down and patting him heartily across the back. Lucy watched it all from a far corner of the throne room behind a marble pillar. After Fingon's company had surprised them in the woods, the High King had demanded that he be taken to his brother. _No_ , he did not need to eat, or change his robes; _yes_ , it would be wonderful if someone could take care of his wounded soldier, _but don't think you can slip away from me just yet_. There had been sixty-five soldiers in the High King's company; another fifteen had been killed crossing the mountains. The snow was all that was protecting Gondolin from invasion, really. Fingon's soldiers had slaughtered over a hundred orcs on their way into the valley, and that didn't even account for the wargs and mountain trolls sniffing around the alpine passes. The daily patrols by Glorfindel and the other elf lords were simply not working. They were lucky that they had a city at **all**.

When Glorfindel heard this, his face had paled, and when they'd made to return the elf lord had picked Lucy up, helping her onto his horse. Lucy had clung to Fainhul's saddle as Glorfindel had swung up behind her. Once he was settled he'd wrapped his free arm around her and held her close, his fingers curling against her waist as if to shield her from the outside world. Around them Fingon's guards had glided past as they made their way towards the city, silent as ghosts in the snow. Noldor were extremely tall, and in full war gear they were absolutely terrifying; armed to the teeth with crested helms and ragged blue sigils, their clothes splattered with black and their faces hidden behind masks of silver.

"What’s that black stuff?" Lucy asked in a hushed whisper, feeling her own heart pounding in her chest. Glorfindel had leaned down, pressing his lips to her ear as he spoke.

"Orc blood." he said, and Lucy had felt her insides knot with anxiety. A little ways off, Fingon turned around and gave the two of them an even stare. He had focused on the way Glorfindel held her in particular, his eyes darting over the details of their proximity like some sort of over-sized bird. Then he’d turned away and paid them no mind, speaking in a companionable tone to one of his guards as he all but skipped his way into the city; an action made even more off-putting by fact that he was drenched in blood.

There had been an eerie wind beginning to twine its way through the area, moaning through the mountain passes and rising above the muffled fall of the snow. One of Fingon's guards – the one he'd been talking to – was shorter than the others, and wearing a strange sigil on his chest. It was red and blue and orange, with spears of the same color radiating outwards to fill a diamond shaped pattern. He'd been staring at Lucy, but she had ignored him, and eventually the soldier turned around and left. As soon as they entered the city, Glorfindel had tried to excuse himself to return Lucy to the estate. Fingon flat out said _no._

"Everyone is going." he’d sing-songed. "The maiden as well. I will need witnesses, in case my brother tries to kill me."

It had been a joke, but there was a tightness to his voice and a pinching around his eyes that spoke of truth. As soon as they entered the Tower of the King, everything had been thrown into an uproar.

Glorfindel pulled Lucy aside and told her to wait by the doors to the Council Chamber. The elf lord had then been dragged to the front with the others, and was currently kneeling near the dais, his gaze trained to the floor. Lucy couldn't see his expression from where she was standing, but she knew he was upset from the way his shoulders were hunched. Turgon was still making spluttering noises, trying to remove Fingon's hands from his arms. Fingon was talking about the Fëanorians. It seemed to be a bad topic to choose, as Egalmoth's expression darkened, and the sneer on Rog's lips was one of utter disdain.

"Really." Fingon insisted. "You should not judge them so. They are much better these days. They haven't done anything remiss in centuries!"

"They are just like their father!" Turgon insisted. He was so upset his voice shook. His hands trembled as he reached up and ran them through his hair, upsetting his crown. "I will not have you talking about them here, and I will not be dragged into any foolhardy scheme involving them!"

"It is not a foolhardy scheme –"

"It is too! You never think these things through! Ever! It is winter!"

"Winter is the only thing that's protecting you right now. Do you know how many orcs we had to kill to get here?"

"And what if you led them here? What if the city is discovered, and it is your fault? This is my city, and mine alone! We do not need your help! We do not need **you**!”

Fingon's expression grew cold, then. "The only reason you still have a city is because my people are being sacrificed to save yours." There was a biting sort of finality to the High King’s tone. "Enough with your fancy parties and hand-dyed silks, Dear Brother. It is time you pulled your weight. Your nobles, too."

" **My** weight?" Turgon spluttered, sounding incredulous. Lucy watched as the Noldo's hand swept across a nearby table, knocking maps and paperweights to the floor in a thunderous clatter. On the dais, Egalmoth's expression was stony, and Rog – who Lucy only saw on the rarest of occasions – was sneering hard, his ruddy brown hair whispering around his face as he leaned forward in his seat. His fingers clenched around the arm rests. Glorfindel remained where he was, kneeling on the floor.

"You dare to assume –" Turgon began, but Fingon cut him off. He was smiling again, his mood as flighty and effervescent as a bird's.

"I am the High King." he quipped. "I can dare quite a lot, you know. But you must listen to me. It is important."

"Is that an order?"

"If it makes you feel better, then yes."

"It is ill-advised to speak so crassly to our King." Rog warned, his voice low and full of anger. Fingon heard him, but didn't acknowledge the elf lord. Instead he continued smiling at Turgon. His grin was all teeth, his words in Quenya.

"Dear Brother, you should control your nobles better. Their loose tongues will get you killed."

Turgon began muttering again, cursing under his breath as he started pacing back and forth. The lamps hanging from the ceiling cast a pale blue glow across the Council Chamber that threw the corners of it into shadows. Beyond the boards that shuttered the windows, Lucy could hear the muffled wail of the wind. As he paced, Turgon caught sight of Glorfindel kneeling on the ground, and then his attention was entirely on the elf lord.

"Glorfindel, get up." he commanded. Glorfindel did so. As he stood, Fingon grinned and slapped the ellon heartily across the back.

"I like this one!" he declared, his other hand on his hip. The two Noldor were the exact same height, and standing next to each other they looked like mirror images; one dark-haired, the other light. "He is excellent with a blade," Fingon continued, turning towards his brother. "Especially for a Vanya. He almost nicked me with his sword. Your vassal will make a good addition to the war host."

There was no mention of consent. No talk of whether or not Glorfindel even wanted to do it. Lucy knew he didn't, because he was looking like death warmed over. Glorfindel hated fighting, and he **hated** violence, and suddenly Lucy felt a rage building inside her, sharp and irrational, because how dare the High King try to force his will upon the elf lord. How dare he try to take Glorfindel away from her. Lucy’s fingers curled against the pillar, her nails scraping along the marble as she bit down on her tongue. Turgon was eying the elf lord again, his gaze sharp with recrimination.

"What did you do?" he said. Fingon quickly interjected, waving his free hand in the air.

"Oh, it is not his fault!" he assured the King. When he did, he slapped Glorfindel across the back a second time. "I startled him." Fingon said. "I believe he thought I would hurt the lady."

Turgon's confusion grew.

" **What** lady?" he demanded. Fingon turned to point directly at Lucy, as if he'd always known she was there. "Her." he said. "The little one. Although I must say, taking _adaneth_ is in poor taste. You know the Edain don't like us keeping their women. It is bad for politics. We need their support for the war."

Glorfindel's head jerked up, his expression panicked. Lucy shrunk under Fingon's gaze as Turgon turned towards her. The King of Gondolin sneered.

"Out." Turgon ordered, snapping his fingers and pointing to Lucy, then to the guards. "Get her out. I will not have her here."

At his brother's words Fingon gave his full attention to Lucy; quick and precarious in a hawk-like way, as if he'd taken interest in a creature moving across the ground and was trying to decide if it was edible. He had a very spacy quality to his gaze, but there was something about the distance to his eyes – and his abrupt shift into hyper-focus – that made Lucy think it was a ruse.

"Why?" Fingon said. "She seems like such a frail little thing." Then his expression hardened, his dark brows drawing together. He looked like a much younger, more animated version of Turgon, but he was older. "Who is she?" he demanded. "What did she do?"

Turgon avoided Fingon's gaze. "No one." he said in Quenya. Then he was motioning one of Glorfindel's guards forward to remove Lucy from the chamber. "No one at all. Take her away."

"You are hiding something from me." Fingon said bluntly, and his voice was very cold. "I do not like this."

"Take her **out**." Turgon insisted. And Lucy was taken out, back to Glorfindel's estate. She was removed from the premises so fast her head was spinning, and when she was deposited unto the care of Aeloth and her brother, the elleth was not pleased at all. When she discovered the reason _why_ she was back, the ancient elf flew into a fit of frustration. Aearmarth began doling out orders to various members of the household; the horses needed to be seen to, and extra food should be stocked in the cellar, in case it was needed. Lucy was marched up to her room without delay. Outside, the snow fell faster.

"The King." Aeloth grumbled as she helped Lucy into her evening dress. "Always, the King... he wants something again, that scatterbrained –" She couldn't finish, she was so angry.

"Is he that predictable?" Lucy asked, even though it was obvious from the short time that she'd known him that Fingon wanted something very badly. Aeloth's normally immutable expression was thunderous behind her veil.

"Yes." she said savagely, adjusting Lucy's dress against her shoulders when the collar began slipping down one of her arms. When it slid down a second time, the elleth made a sound of frustration, picking at the fabric as she tried to make it settle against Lucy’s collarbones. "Your shoulders are so narrow." Aeloth groused. It was not like the elleth to pick on Lucy’s physical appearance unless it concerned propriety, but she was already upset. "We need to take in your dresses. Perhaps a second girdle will keep it in place."

"But you've already taken in my dresses."

"You are showing too much skin. **Always** , you are showing too much skin. It is not appropriate, especially when Laurëfindil is unmarried."

Ah, there it was. That dreaded _propriety_. Aeloth gave up trying to fix the fabric. She placed her hands against Lucy's shoulders, squeezing the skin as she looked at the two of them in the mirror. Lucy sat in front of her, her dress so low that it bared the top of her breasts. She thought of Glorfindel's hand on her front – the way his fingers had slid beneath the fabric, cupping the weight of it – and shuddered.

"This will be a very difficult time for Laurëfindil." Aeloth said, rubbing her hands across Lucy's bared shoulders. "This talk of war will worry him greatly. You must not do anything to upset him, you understand? Do as he says, and do not complain."

Lucy didn't like the order – the way it was given as a command, and meant to be obeyed without thought – but for her, everything was about Glorfindel too. It had to be. He kept her safe; kept her warm and well fed and made sure all her needs were provided for. It was Lucy's job to make sure he was happy, and she **liked** making him happy. She genuinely enjoyed putting a smile on his face, and she couldn't stand the thought of being alone.

Silent and feeling ill, Lucy nodded _yes_ into the mirror. Aeloth sighed in relief and stroked her hair, leaning down to plant a kiss on the crown of her head.

"Good girl." she said. "You are such a good girl. We will make a lady out of you yet. Thank you for not bringing shame to Laurëfindil's house."

Lucy said nothing.

* * *

When Glorfindel came home, he was a mess.

He wasn't stricken by panic attacks, as he'd been when Lucy first arrived in Gondolin, nor was he utterly distraught, like he'd become when she was injured by the baramog. Even still Lucy knew that something was wrong. The elf lord was pale and silent, his lips pinched together and his eyes haunted. He did not glance at them when he came through the front door. Glorfindel barely remembered to **greet** them before he escaped to his room with a bottle of wine, refusing to join them for dinner. Aearmarth turned his head to watch him depart with an expression of deep concern. Then he exchanged a worried glance with his sister, before trailing after the elf lord in a loud rustle of deep yellow robes.

Lucy was left standing by the entrance with Aeloth, meandering in the same spot and unsure of what to do with herself. She was utterly horrified by the fact that Glorfindel had passed by without so much as acknowledging her presence. He never did that. Ever. Always, he sought her out.

Fingon. It had to be Fingon, and whatever he'd brought with him. Something terrible was happening, and Lucy didn't know what it was and she couldn't control it. Oh god, she needed to get to the books. She had to keep Glorfindel safe. She had to stop Gondolin from burning.

"Lucy." Aeloth warned gently, seeing the way she all but turned herself in circles and wrung her hands with nervous tension. "Lucy, leave him be. He needs some time to himself. Remember your promise." But Glorfindel never needed time to himself. In all the time that she'd known him, the only thing the ellon had always needed was **her**.

Her thoughts in tangles, her mind so uncoordinated she could barely speak Sindarin, Lucy managed to convince Aeloth that she was tired, and needed to go to bed. Aeloth obliged, and once she'd been changed into her nightgown and left alone for the night, Lucy got up and snuck downstairs to Glorfindel's room; using the thin, unlit passage she was so fond of during the daytime. It was cold and dark along the corridor, without a single light to guide her way. In the darkness Lucy shivered, listening to the muted howl of the snowstorm through the stone and praying to whatever gods were out there that she wouldn't trip and bash her head open. She knew if she died, Glorfindel would be devastated.

Once she reached the elf lord’s room, Lucy made sure to check that the way was clear before she scurried inside; carefully opening the hidden door with a slow creak of the hinges and poking her head around the golden tapestry to peer into his chamber. The lamps that hung from his ceiling had been dimmed, giving the entire room a soft yellow glow. Even from a distance, Lucy could feel the cold air winding its way into his bedroom between the wooden slats on the windows. Glorfindel himself was collapsed on his bed, still dressed in his robes and lying flat on his stomach, his arms spread out on either side of him and his hair in tangles as he stared at nothing in particular. There was an empty bottle of wine on his dresser.

The elf was so still. He didn't even look like he was breathing. Lucy pushed the tapestry aside and quickly slipped into his room, her bare feet padding against the floor as she all but ran to his side. She couldn't stand it when Glorfindel was like this – was made absolutely frantic by it – and the fact that he'd actually _ignored_ her made the entire situation seem that much worse. He'd been so happy that morning when they'd gone to visit Erestor, and the abrupt shift of his mood was stark.

Without a word Lucy climbed onto his bed, crawling across the covers on hands and knees until she reached his side, where she promptly draped herself over his back. She wrapped her arms around Glorfindel’s neck and pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, but he didn't respond like he normally would; he just kept on staring at nothing, practically drowning in his robes and too-thick hair. His slender hand was limp against the bed, pale and corpse-like. Lucy's panic ratcheted up another notch. She rubbed at his shoulder in soothing circles, willing him to feel her hand through the fabric; willing him to acknowledge that she was there.

"Glorfindel?" she said. When he didn't respond, Lucy leaned down, placing another kiss to his sharply pointed ear. She stroked his hair away from his face, so she could get a better look at his expression. It was blank. "Laurëfindil, what's wrong?" she pressed.

Against the covers Glorfindel's hand twitched, but he still didn't speak. His expression was dull, but the look in his eyes was haunted. Lucy curled around him, resting her head against his. When she did, his fingers twitched once more against the covers. The roar of the wind against his shuttered windows was an annoyance, but Lucy stayed where she was. "Laurëfindil, what is it?" she pleaded, her front pressed to his back. "What did they say?"

The ellon’s hand slowly curled against the covers on his bed, his long fingers twitching like porcelain doll joints, all awkward and stiff.

"The King wants us to go to war." Glorfindel mumbled into his nest of hair. For a moment, Lucy was horribly confused. The elf lord never talked about the war, and the only time she ever got a true sense of what was going on was through Maeglin, who basically told her everything. When she realized what he was saying, Lucy reasoned that she'd simply misheard him; that she was missing some vital bit of information that Maeglin had yet to tell her.

"But aren't we already at war?" she queried. She could have sworn that they were.

Glorfindel's fingers curled against the covers, but otherwise he remained terribly still. "No," he said, sounding hazy and lost. "Not in the way the High King wants. He wishes us to do battle with Morgoth, in Angband. He has come to request an army."

Suddenly Lucy knew what Glorfindel was talking about. Se knew with a sickening sort of certainty what Fingon had come looking for, and in that moment her anxiety was encompassing, both for herself and the elf lord. Glorfindel always sought to hide unpleasant news from her, but if he was admitting the facts so plainly, then the situation was truly dire. Lucy brushed away his hair and kissed his cheek, willing her desperate desire to see him safe to transfer through touch alone. She couldn't stand it when he was sad. She didn't want to be alone again. She’d do anything.

"Don't go." Lucy said. "Don't do it. It's a bad idea. Please. A lot of you will die." They would. If the Noldor actually went through with the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, it would be a disaster, just like it had the first time. Lucy was sure of it.

"It is not my choice." Glorfindel said, and his voice was hoarse. His body was limp beneath hers, and despondent. "It is the King's."

"Has Turgon decided yet?" Lucy asked instead. Glorfindel shook his head ever so slightly. Lucy continued stroking his shoulder, her fingers sliding beneath his loosened collar to massage the muscles there. His skin was as smooth as hers, but hairless. For a second Lucy was shocked by the hardness of his body.

"The King does not wish to go." Glorfindel was saying. "But the High King… his brother, his brother is insistent." He paused, and then added "if we are to join him, it will be in the spring. The city is snowed in."

"So Fingon is here for the whole winter?"

"Yes." Glorfindel said. Beneath her, he shuddered again; a rapid sort of tremor that happened when he was trying to hold back his distress, his breaths caught in his throat. Lucy pressed a third kiss to his jaw, then peeled back his hair to place a fourth kiss to his neck, directly over his pulse. It jumped when she touched him, picking up speed.

"I love you," she told him earnestly. Lucy didn't know what else to say to convey just how worried she was; how badly she wanted him to stay **there**. Slowly, Glorfindel turned over beneath her, a mess of crumpled blue robes and tangled blond hair and too pale skin as he lay still and let her pepper his face with kisses. Lucy placed a fifth kiss to the other side of his jaw, then a sixth near his chin. Soon she was crawling on top of him, straddling his waist so she could reach his neck better, her lips trailing down the side of his throat in a series of open-mouthed caresses. The thirst was rising in her again, and the gnawing hunger in her belly was absolutely insatiable: a ravenous, all-consuming desire to be _filled_. She didn't want anything else. Didn't need anything else.

"Don't go." she gasped, kissing his neck. Lucy felt his hands come up, resting heavily on her hips. "Please."

"I had wished…" Glorfindel began on a shuddering breath; his hands sliding lower to rest on her partially bared thighs. "I had wished to stay for a bit longer, so that I could… you… our family –"

Lucy bent her head and kissed his shoulder, and without really knowing why she slid back and pressed **down** , rolling her hips against his. Happy. She wanted him to be happy. The hunger in her belly and the thirst in her throat were driving out all conscious thought, and Lucy needed him to need her.

The ellon’s breathing hitched. His hands clenched against her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh and holding her there. Lucy swayed her hips again in an undulating motion, pressing another kiss to the base of his throat near his collarbones. She loved the firmness of him; the way she could feel nothing but compact muscle beneath her, despite his thick robes and the deceptive delicacy of his features. Beautiful. He was so beautiful, inside and out. She loved him so much it hurt.

"You don't have to go." Lucy said on a sigh, and when she rolled her hips a third time, his hands slid beneath her nightgown to grip the skin above him. Lucy could feel his own hips now, rolling against hers in tandem.

"Nimeleth…" he began half-heartedly, but his body seemed to be moving without his consent and his protestations were already fading. Glorfindel could barely string enough words together to form a sentence. "Nim… Nimeleth, I do, I do not wish –"

Lucy cut him off by kissing the base of his throat, her lips slightly parted. "You don't have to fight at all." she soothed. She was having a hard time recalling the reason why she'd come to his room in the first place. There was something important she needed to do, but she couldn't remember it and she didn't care. This was more important. "We can go south, to the coast, remember? Away from the fighting, where it's warm."

"Lucy…"

"You can build me a house there, overlooking the sea. You can keep me in your room, so we can always be together. You can touch me whenever you want."

The sound Glorfindel made was one of inarticulate desire.

"Erestor can come with us." Lucy groaned, and she rolled her hips deep; unable to stop herself and unsure of why she did it, only that she wanted the friction and needed more. "Adopt him," she pleaded. "Bring him to the sea, just the three of us. I’ll take care of him for you. We can…we can be a family."

"I do not want someone else's child." Glorfindel choked out. "I want **mine**."

Lucy felt a hardness growing beneath her, then: she felt a strange thickness underneath the ellon's robes, pressing against the junction between her thighs. Instinctually she wanted the thickness inside her; wanted a piece of Glorfindel filling her up to keep her company while he was away. She was so out of it with desire that she could barely process what she was doing, but the hunger. The hunger was all that mattered. The thirst, the fullness, and him. _Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it,_ the voice said, and Lucy was so, **so** close to giving in. The shackles were burning around her wrist.

"Okay," Lucy gasped, rolling her hips in a desperate effort to relieve the ache. There was a rhythm now; a constant, swelling pressure where she would press down and he would arch up, his hands forcing her hips to his to hold her in place against the hardness. It was cold in his room, but Lucy felt like she was in a sauna, and the emptiness in her belly was so intolerable that it almost drove her to tears.

"Okay," she repeated, near mindless. "Okay, we'll find you a wife." It wouldn't be hard, Lucy reassured herself as she kept moving her hips. Everyone loved Glorfindel despite his Vanya heritage, and many ellith had been eying him for longer than Lucy had been alive. It was stupid that he hadn't gotten married already. Ridiculous, even. Lucy didn't want to share him, but if giving him a baby was what it would take to make him stay home, then she’d find someone to do it in a heartbeat. She’d rope Nimel into it. Lucy would kidnap children and claim them as her own if that's what it took. All she wanted was a taste. Just a taste, and a piece of him inside her. It was all Lucy could do not to sink her teeth in and rip. The original reason why she'd sought him out had completely faded away.

"What?" Glorfindel gasped, and suddenly he sounded much more lucid than before. Lucy pressed another open mouthed kissed to his throat. The ellon groaned, instinctively rolling his hips upwards. Lucy’s nightgown – already slipping down her shoulder and bunching around her thighs – fell open across her chest, the thin fabric sliding down to her elbow.

"A wife." she whispered against his skin, wondering how badly Glorfindel would freak out if she actually bit him. "You want children, right? A family? We'll find you a wife. We have until spring."

The wind rattled against his shutters, the low light from his lamps flickering against the walls of his chamber. Suddenly Glorfindel was putting a hand to her shoulder and pushing her back, even as his other hand kept their hips locked together so he could grind the hardness against her nether regions. He couldn't seem to stop. Lucy felt drugged, and definitely out of it, but she knew she needed him inside her. The aching hunger was morphing into outright pain.

"What?" Glorfindel repeated. His eyes were black, and he was breathing hard; seemingly trying to fight his way back to some sort of consciousness. "What? I, I… I do not –" He was unable to finish his sentence.

"A wife." Lucy said on a sigh as they rolled their hips together, but it was more from pain than actual pleasure. She was hungry. So desperately hungry. Her stomach clenched with sharp, twisting muscle spasms, her breathing short and shallow. _I'm going to die_ , the thought came to her, and Lucy knew it to be true. If she didn't feed soon, she would. Through her haze, she realized Glorfindel's expression had turned to one of incredulous despair. He shook his head, mutely at first; shrinking in on himself like a turtle drawing back into its shell, desperate to escape the damage.

"It is not, but you – **we** –" His words were agonized. Lucy was in agony too.

"Glorfindel," she pleaded, but he was already speaking.

"I do not want **them**." Glorfindel was saying, shaking his head back and forth. "It does not work like that for my kind, and you – I need –" He let out a groan, reaching up and clenching both hands in his hair as the hardness between his legs grew larger still. Tears were in his eyes, but they refused to be shed, and beneath her the elf lord trembled in distress, seemingly overcome by mortification when his body refused to obey to his commands. He couldn't control his reactions in the slightest.

"It's okay." Lucy said, trying to string the right words together, but it was hard. She could barely think through the haze of hunger, but it hurt her to see him hurting. She wanted to fix it. "It's okay, we'll find you the right one." But Glorfindel was shaking his head, his grimace of despair growing worse.

"You do not understand," he said, again and again. The wind battered itself against his shuttered windows, whistling in through the cracks. "You do not understand. We only choose **once**. I want, I need –" He couldn't finish, he was so distraught.

Lucy was desperate to appease him, wracking her brain for clues as she tried to think of what he would like. Then she remembered the look on his face as he'd touched her that morning. Before he could draw away, Lucy reached out, removing his hand from his hair to press it to her bare breast. Glorfindel gasped beneath her, and Lucy gasped with him and nearly collapsed at the overwhelming sensation of _ease_. Because the way that he touched her: the way that he fell into the motion almost effortlessly, kneading at the gravid flesh. Lucy couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done this before. He knew her body too well.

"Laurëfindil." she whimpered in relief, and Glorfindel remembered himself; his hand jerking against her front as he made to draw back, only he couldn't seem to complete the motion. His eyes were wide with panic.

"Nimeleth," he mumbled. "Nimeleth, I do not think you understand what you are doing –"

"Is it became I'm Edain?" Lucy asked. "Is that why you don't want it?" She didn't know exactly what _it_ was, except that _it_ was her, and she was offering herself freely. The fact that he was rejecting her hurt. Oh god, she was in so much pain.

Glorfindel let out a shuddering breath and let go of her breast, his hand sliding around her back to draw her into a hug. Fingers spread against her spine, slim and so very alien; warm, full lips were pressed to her temple. Throughout it all, Glorfindel kept his hand on her lower back, pressing their hips together as he rolled against her. He seemed to need the friction, but it wasn't enough for either of them. Lucy could hear the beating of his heart as she laid her head on his chest, staccato and rapid.

"It is not the same for me." he chanted. "I do not wish to hurt you. You are too small. It is not the same for me. You do not understand." And Lucy **didn't** understand. She really didn't. She was offering him everything, and he was taking nothing. She desperately wanted to tell Glorfindel that something was wrong – what had been tormenting her for months and months – but the words were stuck in her throat.

"But I love you, more than anyone." Lucy mumbled against his chest. It should have been enough. Glorfindel let out a ragged expulsion of air. He rolled over and brought Lucy with him, pulling the covers out from underneath them as he pressed her to the mattress, his front flush to her back as he curled around her from behind. The covers were redrawn over them both; lips were pressed to the crook of her neck, and a leg slid between her thighs. Glorfindel's hand reached around, his fingers spreading feverishly to cup her abdomen. Lucy could feel the ellon shaking, the hardness between his legs rubbing against her backside. She shook with him, biting down on her bottom lip to keep herself from crying out in pain.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There shouldn't have been any discomfort when nothing had happened, but there was, and it was the baramog. It had to be the baramog: the monster that had bit her, and Mairon.

"Soon." Glorfindel whispered in Quenya, his hand rubbing soothing circles across her belly. The roar of the wind was muffled beneath the blankets. "Soon, we will go somewhere warm. We will live in the ever-summer, and we will have more than one –"

He wasn't making any sense, and Lucy hurt all over. The pain in her gut so strong she could barely think about anything else. _Elf flesh is sweet,_ the voice whispered, and the need to tell Glorfindel that something was wrong was so intense that it brought Lucy to tears. She felt so alone when he wasn't there. She felt so alone in Middle-earth. Lucy tried not to think about it most days, but she **was** , and there was no escaping it except when she was with him. There were no other humans in the city, except for Morwen, and what if Morwen died?

"Don't send me away." Lucy managed to say through her tears, her breaths shuddering through her chest. "Please, I'll be good."

Glorfindel pressed his lips to her ear. "I would never send you away," he murmured, sounding incredulous. "Why would you think such a horrible thing?"

"Aeloth." Lucy said through her chattering teeth, and it wasn't from the cold, but the pain. "Aeloth says I have to learn how to take care of the household, so I can get married and have children and go away –"

"You will not go anywhere," the elf lord said. His words were fierce, his tone savage. A kiss was pressed to her neck, and then her shoulder, then a third to the exposed skin along her upper back. Each one was more desperate than the last. "Never. **Ever**. You will stay here, with me. Do not listen to Aeloth. She is just… she is… the only children you will have are min–" Glorfindel stopped himself, then rolled his hips hard against her backside, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. He let out a throaty groan. "Aeloth is confused," he said, panting his way through his words. "She does not mean it."

"But what about Turgon?" Lucy said, her eyelids growing heavy. The combination of the blankets and Glorfindel's warmth was dulling her senses enough that she wanted to sleep, if only to rid herself of the ache. Glorfindel was overcome by tremors.

"I will not let him," he mumbled against her shoulder, sounding just as exhausted as she. "You are a member of my house. He cannot take you from me. I will kill him if he does." It was treason.

"Don't go." Lucy insisted, her fingers twitching against the covers as she closed her eyes. She needed to sleep. She never got any sleep these days, and whenever she did her dreams turned to nightmares. "Don't go. Fingon's idea is bad."

Glorfindel kissed her shoulder and pulled her under him, trapping her with his weight. The ellon let his head rest in the crook of her neck. He didn't move again, and Lucy couldn't have moved if she tried.

"I will ask." he mumbled against her skin, then added in Quenya "It is not my choice. I have no choice." It was the only concession Lucy was able to get out of him, and she was too tired to continue prodding.

When Lucy finally fell asleep, she didn't dream until the very end. There were no memories of red haired giants or triple peaked mountains, but there was Mairon. Mairon, reclining in a seat made of smoke, his slim ankles crossed, all seductive smiles and magma bright eyes as he watched her. They were in that void again. That indefinable black space with no air and no sky, no ground and no light.

"You are such a difficult person to reach." he mused, clasping his hands together and tilting his head. "First they put those chains on you, and that **Vanya** …" His fingers drummed against each other in annoyance as his voice trailed off. Then he cocked his head, eying her in contemplation. "Soon now." he mused, and there was pleasure there. "They cannot stop it. Are you thirsty?"

Lucy clutched at her belly; felt the hollow ache, and the burning need to be _filled_. "What did you do to me?" she warbled. If she could have cried in the void, she would've. She knew he'd done something. Had known for months and months that something was wrong, and Lucy could feel it taking over.

Mairon eyed her hand resting against her abdomen. Then he looked up, his gaze trailing languidly over her body until he got to her face. He grinned, all toothy and wolf-like. Lucy could feel a sense of pleasure radiating off of him; could see it in his smile, full of delight.

"Oh, you're one of _those_ , then?" he said, and laughed. "I suppose it is not so surprising, the way you've changed. Perhaps the Vanya will be of use after all." The Maia grinned wider, resting his chin on his hand. "You tell Fingon I say hello." he crooned, and when he smiled there was fire between his teeth. "And if you find him, tell Coppertop I say hello, too. I miss our time together."

"But I'm so hungry." Lucy sobbed. It was all she could think about, even in the dream. Mairon's smile became indulgent.

"Such is your fate," he told her, and he seemed to get perverse pleasure out of it. "I would say it is merely a side-effect, but once you have one inside you, the need will grow stronger. Ungoliant was the same way. Although Ungoliant… she **eats** hers."

Then Lucy jolted awake in Glorfindel's bed, wrapped in his covers and listening to the muffled roar of the snowstorm. She blinked once. Twice. She shuddered in pain, her hand automatically flying to her abdomen to clutch at the emptiness there. The hunger hadn't faded, like it usually did. If anything, it was worse. Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen. His room was deserted, except for her.

Alone. She was always alone, and she couldn't stand it anyone. Mairon's words were ringing in her ears. Lucy curled into a ball and tried not to break into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	27. Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 11, 2016

Lucy sat on the stool in front of the mirror, staring at herself; still naked from her bath and dappled with water that clung to her skin like dewdrops. As she stared, she wondered if anything was different; she ran her hands over snow-white flesh and widened hips, across slender limbs and full, heavy breasts until she got to her scars. When she ran her hands along the raised, preternaturally smooth skin, she felt an overwhelming ache beneath the tissue – a perpetual soreness, a spike of thirst – and bit down on her bottom lip to try and rid herself of the sensation. Still, it persisted.

She didn't look any different from the day before, or the day before that, but she **felt** it. Smoothing her hands over her stomach, Lucy watched the motion in the mirror, but when she got to her abdomen she had to choke back a sob. Her nails dug into her middle, her shoulders shaking. As she stared at the flatness of her body, she felt an overwhelming sense of devastation, a knowledge of _loss._ She knew her belly was supposed to be round and full and tight.

Missing. They were missing. She didn't know _what_ was missing, but Lucy was convinced that she was incomplete without them, and she felt the loss so keenly it was like being punched in the gut. After she'd woken up in Glorfindel's bed, she'd snuck back to her room before Aeloth could realize she was gone. The entire time she'd been shaking so badly she could barely walk. The longer Lucy was awake, the more her sense of wrongness grew, and now the thirst in her throat and the hollowness of her belly was all she could think about, to the point where it was pushing out all conscious thought. 

_Think of the books_ , Lucy told herself, as she tried to focus on the fact that Fingon was still in the city, but it was hard. She could barely concentrate on taking one breath after another, much less that. Where was Glorfindel? What was happening to her? Why was her belly flat? She was scared.

"Lucy, are you alright?" Aeloth said, coming up behind her with a slightly worried expression on her face. She placed her slim hand atop Lucy's head, stroking her hair as she stared at the two of them in the mirror. Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from sobbing, her thin shoulders shaking with horror. As she did, Aeloth dried her off before picking up her discarded bathrobe from the floor, draping it over her shoulders. 

"Lucy," Aeloth said, speaking in a calming tone and moving slowly, as if she knew that any sudden movement would spook her. "You should not sit as such. You will catch cold, and Laurëfindil will worry."

"I want Glorfindel." Lucy mumbled. She could barely get the words out, she was shaking so badly, but she needed him there. She needed to tell him that _they_ were missing, and instinctively knew he could fix it.

"Laurëfindil is out, child." Aeloth soothed. There was a slight edge of pity to her tone as she stroked her hair. "He is seeing to the King, and will not be back until the evening."

In response Lucy hunched over to try and combat her shaking, her other hand clawing at her abdomen as she let the elf brush out the tangles in her hair. The sense of hollowness that was gripping her belly was absolute agony, and the thirst was so strong she couldn't look at Aeloth directly, for fear she would rip out the elleth's throat. Meat. She needed meat. The flesh, and the blood. Her shackles were warm around her wrist, making a slight tinkling sound as she shook. Aeloth continued watching her in the mirror. As she eyed the way Lucy pawed at her stomach, her expression darkened, although her foul mood didn't appear to be directed at her.

Finally the elleth seemed to be able to take no more of it. She leaned over Lucy's shoulder, taking her hand in hers and pressing a motherly kiss to the top of her head.

"There's nothing there, child." she soothed, putting down the brush so she could rub her other hand along Lucy's shoulder. "It is just an illusion. You will feel better in a bit." But Lucy didn't stop shaking. When Aeloth went back to brushing her hair, she continued clawing at her middle, horrified by the flatness of it. It didn't feel like an illusion to her, and what if it wasn't? Her scars were aching, and her throat burned. She felt like she was going crazy. Behind her Aeloth sighed at her distress. Outside the tower there was the howl of the winter wind, and inside her room it was freezing. Goosebumps were erupting along her skin, but Lucy was so shell-shocked by the sense loss that she couldn't even be bothered to reach up and close her bathrobe.

"Your lessons with the princess will be after breakfast," Aeloth continued in a companionable tone as if nothing was wrong, but her thunderous expression said otherwise. "You must return as soon as they are done, you understand? We need to finish fitting your new dress for the Solstice."

They had already finished the fitting, several days ago. Lucy managed to mumble out a shaky "why?" as Aeloth finished detangling her hair.

"The High King is here now," the elleth said, by way of explanation. "The other dress will not do. It is important we show off the wealth of this house."

Lucy didn't care about the wealth of Glorfindel's house. Lucy just cared about **Glorfindel**. She continued shaking, gripping her abdomen as her leg jigged up and down with anxiety. There was a soft knock at the door. Aeloth turned, adjusting the bathrobe around Lucy's shoulders to hide her breasts before she walked to the entrance. A handmaiden was standing there: lovely and delicate but short for an elf, and somewhat nervous.

"Nimel has requested you," the elleth said in a timid manner. "She has informed me that there is something wrong with the latest shipment of cloth." Aeloth's expression became one of mild frustration.

"I am busy at the moment," she told her. Even through the haze of despair, Lucy could hear the consternation to her tone. She could hear everything, actually, but there was a void inside her that was making her panic: a silence emanating from her belly, when there should have been the _pit-pat_ of a heartbeat. 

"Nimel says you must come now." the handmaiden insisted. Aeloth sighed.

"Send my brother," she said. "He is seneschal."

"Aearmarth told her to fetch you instead."

" **Did** he now?" Aeloth said sharply, her annoyance clear. Then she was speaking in Quenya and waving the handmaiden away. She turned back to readjust Lucy's bathrobe around her shoulders, to keep it from falling down. The wail of the wind was muted inside the darkened bedroom, but near the rafters an errant gust of snow drifted through. It was still storming, and heavily.

"I will be back soon." Aeloth said, pointing to Lucy's robe. "Do not let this fall off, you understand? We cannot risk you catching cold." Then she left, shutting the doors behind her.

Lucy simply sat there, losing track of time. She was losing track of a lot of things these days, but she could remember Mairon clearly, his laughter rich and seductive. _Soon now,_ he'd said. _They cannot stop it. Once you have one inside you, the need will grow stronger._ Lucy pawed at her belly, and ached at its emptiness; struck dumb by the realization that it was supposed to be curved and filled with life. Mairon knew what was happening to her, and he was going to steal them away from her, along with her sanity. _Thief. **Monster**_. She wouldn't let him do it. Tommy was dead, but Glorfindel was in danger. Lucy could barely keep her thoughts straight beyond that. She didn't know what was happening to her. 

Morwen was coming with her to visit the princess that morning, to act as chaperon, but when the other woman arrived Aeloth had not yet returned. Lucy was still sitting in front of her mirror, naked except for her bathrobe: clutching at her abdomen and shivering violently as she struggled to stave off her tears.

"Sweetness, what is wrong?!" Morwen exclaimed. She quickly strode into the room and sat on the edge of Lucy's bed.

"I think I'm sick." Lucy managed to blurt out, clutching her belly. The words were like sandpaper sliding down her throat, the truth was so painful to admit, but staying silent was even worse. "I'm hungry. I'm… my, my… they're **missing**." Morwen's eyes drifted down, her gaze focusing on the way that Lucy pawed at her middle. Very slowly the woman reached out, drawing her hands between hers. 

"Sweetness, there is nothing there." she said. "You need to stop."

"But there **is**. There's supposed to be –"

"And who told you something was supposed to be there?" 

"Glorfindel." Lucy choked out, and she didn't know what she was saying. She needed him more than anything, but he was gone. "Glorfindel, he needs to put them back –" 

At the mention of the elf lord's name, Morwen's expression grew dark with a quiet sort of fury. She gripped Lucy's hand harder, her words full of concern. "Sweetness," she began, enunciating her words clearly as if speaking to a very small child. “Do not become so close with the Noldor in this. They can make you want what they want. They can make you see things that are not there. If you do this, it will be so hard on you. Sindar, they are the same way –"

"But I'm so **empty**." Lucy moaned, and she was. It was getting worse. She didn't think anyone was playing a trick on her. "I think I'm sick."

At that moment Aeloth returned and the two of them were unable to speak on the subject any longer. The thirst did not dissipate for Lucy, nor did the hunger, but while she was still shaking and utterly distraught, she managed to hold herself together long enough to let Aeloth dress her. The gown was a baby blue in color, and very thick. When Aeloth tied a darker blue girdle around her waist, she casually placed her hand flat against the front of Lucy's abdomen, and let it rest there for several minutes. The elleth's expression was one of deep concentration, as if she were looking for something. Lucy shuddered and tried not to burst into tears.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked. Aeloth withdrew her hand, appearing relieved. Morwen watched both of them from the end of the bed, her gaze sharp and calculating. She was still angry.

"Nothing, child." Aeloth demurred, adjusting Lucy's gown so the overdress could drape over her girdle. "Nothing at all. I was just checking." Then she stood and finished Lucy's hair.

Breakfast was a sombre affair, with Morwen joining them along with one of Aearmarth's colleagues, but no Glorfindel. Lucy was too distraught and shaky to partake in any sort of conversation, and once she sat she remained silent, only half paying attention to the conversation around the table.

The air was frigid that morning. Through the pane glass windows Lucy could see the driving storm, whistling down from the mountains. Grey clouds blanketed the sky, the whiteness of the city blending into the whiteness of the winter gale and collecting in wind-worn drifts along the golden rooftops. Almost a meter of snow had fallen since the day before, and if the weather kept up it would be less than a day before the drifts would be too deep for her to walk in. Once that happened, Lucy was essentially home-bound, and her visits to Maeglin were cut down to a minimum. She hated being trapped in her room for months on end – and she hated the cold – but the anxiety she felt right now was even worse. She was starving, but not for food, and the smell of sweet things was making her sick. Beside her Morwen watched her increasingly withdrawn behavior with concern, and halfway through the meal the woman reached over and began rubbing Lucy's leg in comfort. 

Fingon was in the city, Lucy told herself, and as she sat there taking comfort in Morwen's presence, she managed to compose herself long enough to come up with a rudimentary plan, albeit flawed. She had to get to the books, she knew – to read through them to see what had changed – without the others realizing what she was doing. Then she needed some way to convince the Noldor not to go through with their plan. Turgon wouldn't listen to her, Lucy knew, but Idril might. The princess didn't exactly trust her – she couldn't, given her position – but the two of them were friendly with one another, and Idril was open-minded and exceptionally smart. When she found the right moment, Lucy decided, she would broach the subject, but she had to do it fast. She also needed to talk to Maeglin before Glorfindel revoked all her privileges and kept her locked away for the winter. It was a risk, considering Maeglin’s temperament, but the ellon would put self-preservation first, Lucy was sure. Tuor was not yet in the city, and Idril hadn't given birth to Eärendil. There was no child to drive a permanent wedge between the elf lord and his cousin, and because of that there was still a chance.

After breakfast Lucy stumbled away from the table on shaky legs, her hand to her throat and the other clutching her middle as she let Morwen lead her to the door in a haze.

"It is just an illusion." Morwen assured her, rubbing her hand across her back. Their skirts swished in tandem across the floor. "There is nothing there. I promise." 

There **was** nothing there, but that was the problem. Lucy didn't know if the sense of _hollowness_ was because of the baramog's bite or something else. She needed Glorfindel; she needed to talk to him. Even with a plan in mind, Lucy didn't know how she'd get through the day without the elf lord there.

Once out of the dining room, she went through the motions of getting dressed in a mechanical manner, letting Aeloth help her into her winter boots and fur-rimmed cloak, to keep out the chill.

"After today, you are not to go outside without Laurëfindil's permission." Aeloth reminded her. Lucy felt so fuzzy-headed that she simply nodded in acquiescence.

The trek to the King's Tower took much longer than intended, on account of the snow. Morwen was with her, as were six of her guards. The wind was driving – enough to wake Lucy up from her haze of misery – but when they arrived at their destination, she began to wonder if they should have come at all. Everything was in an uproar. This was because of Fingon of course, and as they entered the tower Lucy could see servants rushing to and fro. Even though they'd emerged through an out-of-the-way entrance next to the Retainer's Quarters, she was surprised to find a handful of nobles waiting in the landing, talking to each other with urgency. Everyone seemed to know that Fingon was there, and everyone seemed to realize that war was imminent. When she spied the nobles, Lucy began to look surreptitiously around her in the hopes of finding Glorfindel, but he was gone. Once he disappeared into the Council Chamber he was virtually inaccessible. She knew this, but she still wanted to see him.

A servant took their cloaks, and a handmaiden of Idril's greeted them. When she ushered them further into the tower, Morwen and Lucy followed. The guards remained by the doors.

As Lucy began her trek up the winding marble staircase towards the room where her lessons would be held, the world spun. She sagged against Morwen, gripping her arm hard. The older woman gripped her in return, and as she stood there Lucy gasped repeatedly, trying to get a hold of her bearings. Her legs felt like jelly, her limbs weak. Her thirst was insatiable. She needed to feed.

"Sweetness, what's wrong?" Morwen asked. The handmaiden in front of them turned around, raising a curious eyebrow when they didn't follow.

"Dizzy." Lucy managed to mumble out. "M'dizzy." She didn't know what was wrong with her, but she was almost certain now that it wasn't an illusion. Morwen wrapped her arm around her back to support her, her fingers digging into her waist as she led her up the stairs.

"Do not worry." the woman soothed, her voice low. "We will go back soon."

Lucy needed to go back **now** , but she still had to check the books, so she said nothing. Unfortunately they didn't seem to be headed to the room where they usually held her lessons. The handmaiden ushered them towards a chamber that Lucy had not seen before – down a narrow, darkened hallway towards the King's private wing of the tower. As they walked along the hallway, they had to sidestep a few of Fingon's guards. The guards scared Lucy, somewhat. Fingon's soldiers were the same size as the other Noldor, but there was a hardness to them that came from constant fighting; a grimness to their features that she never saw in the elves from Gondolin. For a moment Lucy wondered why she was seeing so many of Fingon's soldiers, but as they approached their destination at the end of the hallway, she heard muffled shouting. One of the voices sounded like it belonged to Turgon; the other, his older brother.

"This way." said the handmaiden as she led them towards the exit. Lucy and Morwen followed.

When they emerged from the passage, Lucy found herself in a large rectangular chamber. They were standing on the second floor of a wrap-around balcony: one that ran along all sides of the room. Lining the balcony were rows of windows, wide and arched and boarded up for the winter. Above them the ceiling was sharply vaulted, and from it hung Noldorin lamps, giving the entire area a warm yellow glow. Several of Fingon's soldiers milled about, mingling here and there with Turgon's guards. The shouting was much louder outside the corridor, but the room was big enough that Lucy couldn't hear all the words.

Just ahead of them on a wooden bench festooned with pillows and an embroidery hoop held between her hands sat Idril. She was barefoot as always, her long blond hair pooling on the floor as she leaned over in her seat to watch whatever was going on down below. The servant led them over to the princess, and as she did Idril turned and smiled. When she saw Morwen supporting Lucy, her expression melted into concern.

From the first floor there was a shout in Quenya, followed by the sound of a chair being kicked. As Lucy neared the railing she was able to see over the edge of it, and spied a resplendently decorated room; the center of it was cleared of furniture, save for an embroidered carpet and several chairs located before a hearth fire. Turgon was in the middle of this, his robes _swishing_ behind him as he paced back and forth, while Fingon lounged in a nearby chair. The two of them spoke too rapidly for Lucy to follow the conversation.

Morwen helped Lucy sit beside Idril, and Lucy sunk down gratefully, shaking and jelly-limbed. The princess smiled at her when she sat, then reached over and gripped Lucy's hand in her own, before she turned to Morwen and nodded her away in dismissal.

"You can leave now," she said imperiously. "We will join you in the study shortly thereafter." 

Morwen frowned, clearly displeased, but turned and left in a soft rustle of fabric. Idril's handmaiden drifted away as well to stand near the entrance to the corridor. After she did, Lucy laid her head upon the railing, so weak from hunger that she felt like she was on the verge of fainting. Idril didn't let go of her other hand. The princess leaned forward, speaking in a low voice.

"Are you well?" she asked with concern. "You look terribly pale." Lucy trembled and avoided her gaze. She liked Idril a lot, but she didn't know her well enough to trust her with **that**.

"I am feeling weak." she admitted, and hoped the princess would leave it at that. Idril seemed too preoccupied by the fight on the first floor to press her for more details, however; she simply nodded and leaned back, returning to her embroidery as she continued to watch the altercation below.

Lucy followed her line of sight in a sluggish manner, letting her eyes rest on Fingon, who was now leaning forward in his chair. She had to fight the urge to fall asleep, as she still needed to read the books, but it was difficult. Lucy wanted Glorfindel. She needed Glorfindel. She was so desperately hungry that she felt like she hadn't eaten in years. Lucy could hear the sound of Idril's heartbeat from where she was sitting: the steady _thrum_ of her blood, pumping through the arteries in her neck.

"Is it alright for me to be here?" she asked. Lucy didn't have to elaborate for Idril to know what she was talking about. Turgon didn’t like her near any sort of "planning," and the fact that the High King was right below them was dangerous, all things considered.

The princess shrugged listlessly. Lucy could feel someone watching them, and wondered if it was one of Fingon's guards.

"So long as you do not get too close." Idril said, then added in a somewhat annoyed manner "besides, it is not as if they are discussing battle. They are just arguing. Always, they argue about silly things. They are both horribly stubborn."

"NO!" Turgon shouted suddenly, his hand cutting angrily through the air as he turned around to face his brother. Fingon was drumming his fingers rapidly against the armrests of his chair, his lips pinched. "NO! I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"

"What are they arguing over?" Lucy asked, trying not to fall off her seat. She was feeling so weak that she didn't know how she was going to get up.

"My uncle Maitimo." Idril said, sighing in what sounded like a long-suffering manner. "Well to be more accurate, they are arguing about the Fëanorians, but in truth it is always over Maitimo. It never **won't** be." 

Lucy felt her insides clench with anxiety at the mention of _Fëanorians_ , but not for the reason that the elves of Gondolin seemed to despise them for. _They got involved with a witch,_ Bilbo had said, except the Fëanorians had never met a witch in Tommy's books. They'd never even been near one. Lucy had checked.

The sensation of someone staring at them got stronger, and Lucy grimaced. She was feeling too weak to turn around and see whom it was.

"Why are they arguing over _Maitimo_?" she asked instead, trying to distract herself with idle chatter. Idril pulled a line of thread through her silken cloth with a delicate tug, then leaned sideways to look over the balcony, blatantly snooping on the fight right below.

"Atar does not like the Fëanorians, but my uncle Fingon does. Always, it has been this way. My atar blames the Fëanorians for our exile. He blames them for the ships. Although, they **did** burn them. It was Fëanor's order, and they followed it. He thinks Maitimo will get my uncle killed."

"Fëanor?" Lucy asked, trying not to sound like she was fishing for information. She knew next to nothing about the former High King of the Noldor, except for what was written in the books. From what she could tell, it was better off that he was dead. 

"My grandfather's half-brother." Idril supplied, her fingers skillfully maneuvering her golden thread in and out of a length of turquoise blue cloth. Briefly, she looked over Lucy's shoulder towards whoever was staring at them, then looked away. "Fëanor had seven sons. My half-uncles, you see? And they are known as _Fëanorians._ Those that serve under them are also known as Fëanorians, although this term is not exactly correct." She paused, pursing her lips, before speaking again. "It is… what is that English word you spoke of? _Sling?_ "

"Slang." Lucy corrected. Idril nodded, embroidering a delicate, swallow-like bird. "It is _slang,_ " the princess said. If she hadn’t been feeling so weak, Lucy would have laughed at the absurdity of the elleth pronouncing the word. "The Fëanorians are a very pure type of Noldor. Very… high strung. My uncles have their atar's temper, and they are very, very good at fighting."

"The Silmarils." Lucy said, connecting the cursed stones to the word _Fëanor_. Idril nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yes." she said sadly. "The Silmarils." A moment later she added in a whisper "I hope Thingol listens to their warning. They are busy now, but my uncles do not make idle threats. And they have no love for the Sindar."

"Is that why people hate them?" Lucy asked. Idril shrugged as she finished another line of stitching. Lucy could tell the conversation was making the elleth uncomfortable, as she was hedging her words.

"There are many reasons." she began slowly. "But most of them have to do with their atar."

"Why?"

Idril's expression grew pinched. "My grand-uncle was brilliant, but he was also mad. My uncles are brilliant too, but they are prone to the madness of their atar. It is The Oath, you see? They are behaving now, because they are fighting Morgoth in the north, but they have done many, many terrible things, and will most likely do even more terrible things in the future." Idril paused. "If you ever meet them, you should not talk to them. Celegorm especially. They are my family, but they are dangerous. To everyone."

"Then why is your uncle such good friends with them?"

Idril shrugged, and didn't look up. "Uncle Fingon does not care."

"Is Maitimo dangerous too?" Lucy mumbled against her arm, fighting off her desire to sleep. Idril let out a little laugh, but it wasn't a happy one. "Of course." she chided. "My uncle Maitimo is tragic and beautiful, and good with a sword. Always, he has been these things. There will be no happiness for him where he is headed. This is fact."

"Is he mad like Fëanor?" Lucy asked. Idril finished a third line of stitching. This time, the tug was more savage.

"Who knows?" the elleth intoned. "In the beginning he was not this way, but many bad things happened. Horrible things, and he broke. He is better now, from what I hear. Or maybe he is better at hiding it, and his brothers are worse. They do not like talking about this sort of thing with outsiders, and I have not seen Maitimo for some time."

"When did you last see him?"

"When I was a child, smaller than you."

"I am not small." Lucy countered sluggishly. She didn't really feel like arguing the point, but she felt like being difficult, if only to distract herself from the pain. Glorfindel. All she wanted was Glorfindel. She missed him terribly, and it hadn't even been a full day since she'd last seen him. Lucy pooled her head on her arms as she leaned against the banister. The shoulder of her dress began to slip down one shoulder, revealing her skin. Idril laughed at her comment, but her tone was strained.

"Oh Lucy," she chided. "You are a kitten in a teacup, compared to my kind."

Lucy shuddered at the mention of kittens. She couldn't stand the sight of cats, ever since the baramog's attack.

"Did you like Maitimo?" she asked. Idril nodded, but her smile was bittersweet.

"Everyone did, before we left Valinor. His face is like his atar's, and his atar was very beautiful, so many _edhelrim_ treated him kindly because of this. But he is too tall, even for an elf. He has red hair as well! When I was little, I thought this was strange."

At the mention of _red_ Lucy's insides clenched; her fingers curling and her breath tightening as she remembered the time jump; the elf with one hand and wild red hair, holding Glorfindel's corpse. _Maedhros_ , Mairon had crooned as he slammed the gigantic mace into the ellon's side. _How have you been, Coppertop? I've missed you._

Was it him? Were they one in the same? Lucy couldn't remember exactly. She had to check the books.

Idril was still talking, her gaze growing distant as she relived a memory that Lucy had no part of. Down below, Fingon and Turgon argued. "When I was little, I thought my uncle Maitimo was a giant." the princess confessed. "I told my atar this, and he told me that even though he was Fëanorian, this was a very rude thing to say. But my uncle Maitimo was kind to me, you see, and he used to be very good with children. He had to, because of all his brothers. When we visited them in Tirion, he would pick me up and let me sit on his shoulders. I felt like I could see the whole world, he was so tall." 

"Is that why your father hates him?" Lucy asked. "Because you got along with him?"

Idril shook her head, surreptitiously casting a glance towards Turgon and Fingon as their shouting got worse.

"No." she said. "He hates him because they burned the ships. Because my mother died on the Grinding Ice. Fingon is High King now, but my uncle worships the ground Maitimo walks on. He does not care if he is mad. It is not a good situation."

"Does Maitimo like him, too?"

"Maitimo is not good at loving anything, anymore." Idril spat. There was bitterness to her tone, and anger. "Morgoth captured him, and Sauron broke him into bits and pieces. When Maitimo was returned to us, he never gave those pieces back. It is unforgivable."

There was a moment of relative silence, where Idril stopped talking due to unpleasant memories, and Lucy didn't try because she was feeling too weak. Throughout the hall, the muffled roar of the snowstorm could be heard from beyond the shuttered windows, and down below Turgon's voice rose and fell as his shouting continued. Whenever there was a lull in the arguing, Lucy could hear the soft murmur of Fingon's guards talking to one another. The sensation of someone watching her was still present – their eyes lingering on her bared shoulder – but she didn't recognize them. 

"This conversation saddens me." Idril said suddenly, and she sighed. The princess stood, motioning her handmaiden over. "My atar will argue with my uncle until the world falls apart, if you let them. They are both stubborn, and pigheaded." she reached for Lucy's hand. "Come, let us finish your lessons. I think it is pertinent, now that my uncle is here."

Lucy nodded in acquiescence. She was barely able to stand, and not without Idril's help, her legs shaking and her throat burning with thirst. The princess eyed her with concern, gripping her hand tight; then a strange look came over her face, followed by something that could have passed for realization. The princess rubbed Lucy’s back in comfort.

"How is Pityalos?" she asked, using the epessë she always gave to Glorfindel. Lucy simply stood there and shook. She needed Glorfindel more than anything in that moment, except the urge to fill the hollowness inside her. She needed **that** more than air.

"He doesn't like the war." she said. Idril hummed in acknowledgement, looping her arm all the way around her back. Lucy leaned against her gratefully and fought the urge to faint.

"Pityalos wouldn't." Idril agreed as she led Lucy towards the narrow corridor. "He is very good at fighting, but he does not enjoy it. He should have stayed in Valinor."

Lucy agreed with her. As they left the room the sense of someone watching her dissipated, and she thought no more of it. Her craving for Glorfindel was too strong to dwell on anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Edhelrim - Elves


	28. A Growing Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 16, 2016

By the time they finally got around to the books, Lucy's haze of hunger was never ending. It was so strong she didn't remember what it was like to feel anything else. Her senses were amplified, but **not** at the same time; she could feel the vibration of the elves moving nearby through the soles of her feet; could hear the pump of their blood, steady and sure and constant.

She wanted flesh. Needed the meat. Her desire to see Glorfindel was just as bad, and her continued devastation over the hollow feeling in her belly persisted. There were no heartbeats. Where were the heartbeats? Morwen had told her there was nothing there, but there **should** have been. Only Lucy didn't know what _they_ were, or where they had gone. Her fear over their continued absence was turning into terror. She needed them back.

When Idril finally put the books in front of her – opening to the last page of _The Hobbit_ that they'd been studying – Lucy didn't even realize it was there. When she did, she began to translate the words into a shaky Tengwar script, but the feather quill was nearly limp in her hand, her fingers twitching. She had no energy for anything. Only the books. The **books**. Fingon, and the war. She had to concentrate. Lucy tried, but she was feeling so ill the words were beginning to blur before her eyes. What she really needed was _The Silmarillion_ , but all around them the guards stood to attention, stony faced and armed. Idril sat beside her, watching her write. The princess had braced her chin on her hand and her other arm on the table, eying the way that Lucy swayed where she sat; how her breathing was shallow, and her body shook. Eventually the elleth reached over, placing her slim hand to Lucy's shoulder and rubbing in clockwise circles. Lucy shuddered and nearly dropped her quill.

"I am sorry." Idril confessed. There was a mixture of concern and mild annoyance within her expression. "Pityalos is hard to handle sometimes, and very lonely. When he is upset he tends to forget himself, but he should know better. I will talk to him for you."

"What?" Lucy mumbled, looking towards the princess, but Idril's expression had melted into an easy smile, and she said no more. Outside the storm continued unabated, the snowflakes swirling through the air to dot the glass-covered windows; the King's private wing of the tower was one of the few places that had copious amounts of it. Beyond the windows of the small, scroll-filled room, there was nothing but whiteness. The snow was so thick that Lucy couldn't even see the mountains, but what she really wanted to see was Glorfindel. She needed him to take away the ache.

_Remember the plan._ _Remember that time is breaking._ Lucy tried to string some words together in the hopes of forming a sentence. She barely succeeded, and was sure that she sounded suspicious.

"Can I see _The Silmarillion?_ " she asked, closing her eyes as she gripped the edge of the table. "For… for reference? I have to check something." The books were kept under lock and key at all times, guarded by a bevy of soldiers; at the moment six guards were positioned in various places about the room. There was no way she could read the books without supervision, but Lucy was hoping to check.

Idril nodded and stood, walking over to a pale cabinet on the far side of the chamber. Her thick white dress dragged softly behind her. Lucy heard the _click_ of the cabinet being opened with a key, followed by the rustle of Idril's skirts as she withdrew the book and turned around. When she came back, the elleth placed _The Silmarillion_ on the table, looking at Lucy expectantly. Lucy almost closed _The Hobbit_ in response, but then she remembered her ruse.

With shaking hands she pulled _The Silmarillion_ closer, pretending to compare the two books. The cover of _The Silmarillion_ was dented from its fall in the mountains, and it had seen so much use that many of the pages were coming loose. Very carefully, Lucy flipped to the annotated index at the back of the book, then did the same thing with _The Hobbit_ , as if searching for something. Trying not to sound too suspicious, she began to pry.

"What year is it again?" Lucy asked. Idril raised an eyebrow.

"Four-hundred and seventy-one." she drawled, as if seeing through Lucy's lies, but the elleth didn't question her selective memory any further. When it seemed like the princess was going to let the subject drop, Lucy used her finger to scroll through the index, searching for anything written under the year _471_ that she could immediately reference. There wasn't much: just bits and pieces scattered here and there throughout the novel, with several notations pointing directly to Gondolin. Lucy didn't turn to any of the pages containing it, as she'd read obsessively over the fall of the city; just the thought of watching Gondolin burn was traumatic. There was a mention of Fingon, however, and another paragraph about the various forces that had joined the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Lucy had only skimmed over the battle before, but she flipped to it now, reading over the slaughter in detail. As she did so, her sense of despair grew stark.

Turgon and his lords **had** joined the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, but Fingon had never come to Gondolin. Morgoth's forces had not pushed so far south. It was all she could do to concentrate on the words, but even with the facts going in one ear and out the other, the situation didn't look good. The events didn't match up. Lucy read over the names of the places that had not yet fallen – strongholds and cities that had joined the battle – and wondered if they were still standing.

"Where's Hithlum?" she asked. Idril reached across the table, drawing a large map forward to place it in front of her. Once she did, she put her hand to Lucy's back to keep her steady, using her other hand to point to an area northwest of Gondolin, ringed by mountains on all sides.

"Here." she soothed. "It is administered by my uncle Fingon, you see?" Her finger trailed down, going southwest, until she was pointing at another area ringed by mountains, only this one was next to the sea. "This here?" she said proudly. "This is Nevrast. It is where I lived with my atar, before Gondolin was built. Pityalos lived there too." The princess smiled fondly, lost in memory. "Pityalos loves the sea, especially when it lies next to the mountains. I think it reminds him of home."

"Oh." Lucy said, swallowing thickly. This close, she could hear Idril's blood pumping; she could discern the sweet smell that clung to the princess’ flesh, a mixture of permissions and lilies. _Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it,_ the voice said, but Lucy wouldn't. Idril was wonderful to her, and Lucy refused to hurt her. She wouldn't hurt Glorfindel, either. She'd die first.

_Remember Fingon_ , she told herself. _Remember the war._

"And Himring?" Lucy asked. Idril's expression darkened noticeably, her fingers curling against Lucy's back. Still, she pointed it out – a small speck in a barren wasteland directly east of Gondolin, the paper blackened with pitch. The entire thing had the look of a forbidden land. 

"Himring is my uncle's fortress. Maitimo, that is." Idril confessed. "It is on top of a giant hill, and very cold." she paused, as if judging the wisdom of her words. "The Fëanorians live in very dangerous lands. They are on the front line of the war."

Lucy's insides clenched at the mention of fortresses; she remembered the citadel from the time jump, surrounded by the whiteness of the snowstorm and the orange glow of the flames. _Maedhros_ , Mairon had crooned, and the giant ellon had crumpled like paper. _How have you been? Morgoth sends his regards._

Mairon. **Mairon**. She couldn't escape him. His fingers were in everything, tangled in puppet strings as he pulled her this way and that.

_Lucy,_ a voice suddenly sounded inside her head. Instantly she recognized it. _Lucy, where are you?_ Her shackles burned around her wrist. Lucy gagged and clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Idril eyed her with concern, running her hand in clockwise circles across her back.

"I know it is hard, being away from him." the elleth soothed. "But it will pass. I will make sure Pityalos does not do it again."

"That's not it." Lucy said from behind her hand. She didn't really understand what Idril was going on about. Glorfindel. She needed Glorfindel. She was shaking and weak, and Mairon's voice rung in her ears. Lucy was so lonely without the elf lord that she actually started to close the books, but then she remembered she still had to ask questions. She still had to see what else had changed.

"Where's Nargothrond?" she asked. The expression that crossed Idril's face was one of deep sadness. Immediately Lucy knew that the news wasn't good.

"It fell." the princess said. "Several years before you arrived. My uncle Finrod – the Lord of Nargothrond – was away at the time. My other uncles, the Fëanorians…" She paused, and her expression darkened. Then the elleth shrugged her shoulders. "Well, Celegorm and Curufin have never cared much for the will of others." she surmised. "My cousin Orodreth survived, at least. He is in Doriath now, along with my aunt."

"Oh." Lucy said, and felt even sicker. Nargothrond wasn't supposed to have fallen for many more years. It made the Noldor host even weaker. _Oh god_.

"Is something amiss?" Idril asked, her voice finally taking on a note of suspicion. Lucy nodded, then shook her head, undecided. She could barely force herself to keep still.

"Yes." she said, then corrected herself and said "No. I don't think so. I think I misread something. I was worried about the war."

Idril nodded in understanding, and gave her a tight smile. "Do not worry so much," she said, stroking Lucy's back. "We are safe here, and Pityalos would never let anything happen to you." The incident with the baramog remained unspoken. The princess paused for a moment, before adding "well, we **are** safe, so long as my atar does not do something stupid. He and my uncle Fingon do many stupid things together. Do not tell my atar I said this, yes? He will fluff up like a hen, and pout for days." 

Lucy had to look away and lean to the side, the urge to rip out Idril's throat was so strong. She wanted the conversation to end, so she said nothing. 

The princess seemed to take her silence as her cue that the lesson was over. Soon afterwards, she began unceremoniously rolling up the maps. Lucy went to close _The Silmarillion_ , intending to hand it over. Just before she did however, the pages flipped in quick succession, landing on a chapter title that caught her eye. She'd probably skimmed it a dozen times over, but for some reason the name _Maeglin_ jumped out at her, followed by the mention of _Aredhel_. Lucy knew that Maeglin's mother had been named as such, and although she didn't know who _Eöl_ was, it was a short chapter. A sense of morbid fascination took over.

Lucy eyed the pages, ever so briefly. The more she read, the more her heart sank, the sick feeling in her gut turning to sadness as her mind finally processed the words. The chapter was written in flowery language, and it didn't outright say the word, but Lucy was good at seeing _underneath_ : at reading the hidden message between the words. Maeglin's father was Eöl, she learned. His marriage to Aredhel was abusive, and Maeglin's mother had been raped. Maeglin was the by-product. He hadn't been given a name until he was **twelve**.

Hands shaking and feeling horrifically guilty – as if she'd been witness to something she never, ever should have seen – Lucy closed the book and said nothing. She was a voyeur here, and there was dirt on her skin. She needed to scrub it off. She needed Glorfindel.

"I'm done." Lucy said. Idril nodded. The princess reached across her to put away the books.

The walk back down the stairs was a treacherous one, as Lucy was so weak she had to be supported by Morwen. The woman gripped her arm with one hand, the other wrapped around her back. When Morwen came to greet them, Idril disappeared back into the conference room where her father and uncle were fighting, and her handmaiden lead them instead.

Stumbling on a step, Lucy gripped the railing with her free hand, her hair beginning to tumble loose from its braid. She was so hungry. She needed to feed. Everything ached.

"Will you be fine walking home?" Morwen whispered against her ear. Lucy nodded, swallowing heavily. "I just need to lay down," she said. "I didn't sleep well last night." She **had** slept well, actually – better than she had in months, and she was sure it was because of Glorfindel – but she was weaker than she'd been in ages. When she mentioned that she hadn't slept, Morwen's expression darkened into something thunderous, her lips pinching in fury and her hand gripping her arm.

"Are you in pain?" the woman asked quietly. Lucy bit her lip and nodded. Everything was painful, although the ache in her belly was probably the worst. Morwen cursed and held her tightly, guiding Lucy down the rest of the stairs.

When they got to the landing several of Fingon's soldiers were milling about, and Lucy's guards were waiting for her by the door. There was a chilly draft winding its way through the room. Although none of the elves were affected by it, Lucy was. She shivered hard. The sense of someone watching her suddenly spiked, but she surmised this was because they were out in the open, and everyone knew who she was. To the Gondolindrim, Lucy was Glorfindel's companion, his "pretty but frail" human charge. Everything was always about Glorfindel, and Lucy was never **not** attached to his name or his house. If she hadn't adored him so much, she would've resented the other elves for viewing her as such – as an extension of another person, and not as a person in her own right. She still sort of did.

"One moment." Morwen whispered, stepping away. "Let me find your cloak." The older woman walked towards one of the guards, reaching out. Without a word the guard handed Lucy's cloak over, the fabric pooling between Morwen's hands.

Lucy swayed suddenly, her breaths turning shallow; her chest heaved as she tried to draw air into her lungs. The world felt numb and her knees wouldn’t support her. She was hazing out. Almost in slow motion, Lucy began to collapse. She'd been knocked unconscious before – had suffered concussions and extreme weakness because of blood loss – but she'd never actually fainted. It was a strange sensation.

"Lucy!" Morwen exclaimed. Before she could fall all the way, however, Lucy felt a hand grip her arm to pull her up, followed by another hand going to her lower back, their fingers spreading to steady her. She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, trying to reorient herself. Someone was speaking to her in a strange tongue she couldn't understand. Even though they were standing close, their words sounded like cotton in her ears. The voice was masculine.

"She only speaks Sindarin." Morwen was saying as she came up beside them. There was a brief conversation in that same strange tongue between the older woman and the person that was holding her. Then the stranger spoke again. This time Lucy understood his words.

"Are you alright my lady?" the soldier said in Sindarin. Lucy finally turned towards the voice; for a moment she thought she was looking at a very short elf.

The soldier was taller than her, standing at six feet, but he was definitely smaller than every other ellon in the room. Then Lucy took in the rest of him, and saw legs and arms that were thick with muscle, followed by a broad face and rounded ears where there should have been delicate, angular planes and sharply pointed features. The man's blond hair was tied in a knot that rested at the nape of his neck. Grey-blue eyes looked down at her from a fairly young face, his chin dotted with stubble. A few faint lines of exhaustion were around his eyes. He was dressed for war – all of Fingon's soldiers were – but the sigil on his chest was comprised of red and blue and orange, with stylized spears radiating outwards. It took Lucy a painfully long time to realize that she was staring at another human, and it had been so long since she'd seen a human male that at first she found the sight utterly bizarre.

Then, bittersweet elation filled her. A human. Another human. It was the soldier who had been staring at her when she and Glorfindel were ambushed in the woods. Lucy wanted to talk to him – to ask him about human things and human problems – but she was too weak. She needed to feed. She needed to find Glorfindel, so he could fix the emptiness. But a **human** –

"You're Edain." Lucy said breathily, reaching towards him with a shaky hand. She was so frail she immediately started falling with the slight movement, her legs giving out beneath her. The man's expression changed to one of panic. He quickly reached around her, removing his hand from her back to grip her other arm, so she could stay upright.

"My lady!" he exclaimed with concern.

The soldier had an open face. A warm, kindly countenance. Lucy had begun to think that she would never see another human besides Morwen for the rest of her life, and she was so overcome with relief that she wanted to sob because of it.

"My lady, can you stand?" the man asked. Lucy nodded, her chest heaving as she tried to draw more air into her lungs. Her dress began to slip down her left shoulder with the movement. Morwen eyed the way the man gripped Lucy's arms, but said nothing.

"I apologize for intruding," the man continued, but he didn't let go of Lucy's arms. His chainmail jangled as he shifted his weight. "I had seen you earlier, and wished to speak with you. Do you… do you require assistance?" 

Lucy shook her head, clutching at his arms like he was clutching at hers. She didn't want him to leave. "I'm Lucy." Lucy managed to say, smiling weakly, but the gesture was genuine. "What's your name?"

"Belor, my Lady. From the House of Hador." There was a slight flush to the soldier’s cheeks as he spoke. His hands were warm against her arms. "I am here as envoy on the request of my Lord. And you?"

"I don't have a house." Lucy said. The man's expression was comically confused.

"She belongs to the House of the Golden Flower." Morwen supplied. Belor's confusion remained as he turned to the older woman, silently seeking an explanation. "It is an elvish house," Morwen explained further, folding her hands in front of her. "She is under the care of the Lord Glorfindel."

"Are you her handmaiden?" Belor asked.

Morwen grimaced. "I am now," she said, but her tone suggested otherwise. Belor's confusion lessened somewhat, but there was wariness to his gaze, and more than a little concern. When he turned back, his hands were a light but insistent pressure around Lucy’s arms.

"Why do you hail from an elvish house?" he asked. His question almost sounded like an accusation, however polite. 

"She belongs to –" Morwen began.

"I live here." Lucy cut in, breathless and shaking but desperate to talk. She was so starved for human interaction she would take anything she could get.

"You **live** here?" Belor asked with blatant surprise. "You are not just visiting?" 

"No."

The soldier's expression grew grim, then; almost angry, but his anger did not seem to be directed at her. Morwen's expression mirrored his.

"Why do you only speak Sindarin?" Belor demanded.

"Because that's all they taught me." Lucy said, utterly honest. She understood Quenya, but that was an elvish language too. Belor's expression grew darker.

All of a sudden Lucy felt a clenching in her belly, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest. She let out a gasp. Her knees wobbled, her legs giving out beneath her. Everything seemed so bright. Belor let out a short shout of surprise and gripped her harder, to keep her from falling. A second later, Lucy heard Glorfindel's voice.

" **Lucy**?" the elf lord said. Lucy managed to turn towards him, held up by Belor's arms. Glorfindel had just emerged through a side passage that led to the Council Chamber. Two other elf lords accompanied him, and the three of them seemed to be headed towards the room where Turgon and the High King were still arguing.

"Lucy, what are you doing here?" Glorfindel asked.

"Her lessons –" Morwen began, but already the elf lord's countenance was changing as he eyed Belor's proximity to Lucy; the way the man gripped her; how her dress had begun to slide down her shoulder, exposing the skin beneath. Almost in slow-motion Glorfindel’s expression morphed from genuine surprise to a primal sort of fury. His eyes became bright – so bright they were almost glowing – and the intensity to them was savage.

"Remove your hands from her," he said in a clipped, jerky tone. Belor's confusion returned.

"Pardon?" the man said, but already Glorfindel was stepping forward, and then he was **there** : deftly removing the soldier's hands from Lucy's arms and moving between them, effectively cutting off their contact. The elf lord’s arm went around Lucy's back to hold her up, his voluminous robes partially hiding her from view. Lucy felt relief the second he touched her, her pain fading away to be replaced by a sense of _rightness_. The hunger was still there, but she wasn't so scared anymore. Glorfindel would fix it. Glorfindel would know what was wrong. Lucy rested her head against his chest, and his arm around her back tightened.

"She is not yours to touch," the elf lord was saying. He spoke rapidly, and there was an edge of hysteria to his voice. Lucy could tell that he was extremely upset. "You will not mishandle her that way, and if you do so again you will regret it."

"Forgive me, my Lord." Belor began, somewhat reproachfully. Through her haze of hunger, Lucy realized that the soldier was angry as well. "But the lady is mortal like myself. It is my right to speak to her."

"The lady is a member of my house. I am its Lord."

"My Lord." Belor corrected through gritted teeth. His hands were clenched, his expression a mixture of frustration and ire. "You are Eldar. The Lady is **Edain** , and ill."

Glorfindel's hand tightened. He drew Lucy closer to him. "Laurëfindil." said one of the other lords that had accompanied him. It was Salgant. The ellon had a soft, somewhat tremulous voice, and next to the other elf lords Lucy was struck by how young he looked, even though she knew he wasn't. He was shorter than the other elves too, and very slender.

"Is something amiss?" Salgant continued.

"No." Glorfindel said, but his tone was clipped. "I must return my charge to the estate. Please tell the others I will join them shortly."

Belor was still glaring, his hands still clenched into fists. The man cast one last look at Lucy, then at Glorfindel, before he turned around and stalking off, his chainmail jangling. Lucy stared after his retreating back, leaning against Glorfindel and taking comfort in his warmth. Salgant's gaze flitted to Lucy. Lucy didn't miss the way the elf lord eyed her proximity to Glorfindel, or how the ellon's hand rested possessively against her bared shoulder, his fingers kneading at her skin. The smaller elf drew his thick navy robes around himself and nodded, his baby-fine hair curling into whorls along his shoulders.

"Of course." Salgant demurred. Then he turned around and disappeared down the passageway, towards Turgon's private chamber. Glorfindel reached over and took Lucy's cloak from Morwen without a word, helping her dress himself.

Without waiting for the others, the elf lord all but dragged Lucy outside, his hand on her arm so she wouldn't fall. Once alone he leaned down and picked her up, bridal style, holding her close as he carried her all the way back to the estate. Lucy collapsed against him, resting her head against the thickness of his hair and basking in his warmth. She was nearly insensible with the hunger.

"Glorfindel." she whispered, her fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his cloak. "Glorfindel –" Glorfindel pressed his lips to her forehead, cradling her close. 

"Shh, Nimeleth." he soothed, but his own voice was shaking. "I know. I know. I am sorry." When they got to the estate Glorfindel didn't put her down. He carried her all the way up to her room. Upon arriving he took care of her himself; removing her winter boots before pulling back the covers on her bed, tucking her beneath them like a fragile thing he was terrified of breaking. Glorfindel was still dressed in his winter clothes, his golden hair tumbling across the bed and his face framed by his hood. His cloak was damp with snow, but he was beautiful.

The elf lord smoothed Lucy’s hair aside with one hand, pressing kiss after kiss to her temple. The thumb on his other hand ran repetitively along the shell of her ear. The clenching in her belly became a spasm, and Lucy whimpered, clutching at the hand that cradled her head. Hot. Everything felt so hot. She was burning with a fever, but she felt so cold. She needed Glorfindel to warm her.

"Laurëfindil." she pleaded, but Lucy didn't know what she was pleading for. Glorfindel shushed her, pressing another kiss to her cheek, just below the corner of her left eye.

"I know, Nimeleth." he whispered. A second kiss was placed to her jaw, full of desperation. "I know. I am so sorry for leaving you. I will be back tonight. I promise."

He had full lips, Lucy noted absently: pale and smooth as the rest of his skin, but with a hint of rosy color to them. They were fuller on the bottom, and his mouth was somewhat wide. She wanted to kiss his lips, Lucy decided. She'd never done so, but now the ache inside her was turning to torture. From the direction of the open door, there was the soft rustling of skirts. Lucy knew that Aeloth had joined them to observe the commotion, but she didn't care.

"It aches." Lucy insisted. Glorfindel ran his thumb across her cheek, his expression distraught. Lucy gripped his hand, frantic with the need to tell him. "It aches. They're missing –"

Glorfindel shuddered violently at the word _missing_. Lucy knew that Aeloth saw it; saw the way the elf lord pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his free hand running down her front between her breasts to finally rest against her belly, his fingers spread and palm flat. When he touched her there, the ache lessened, but the need got worse.

"I know." the ellon whispered against her cheek, and Lucy was immediately filled with an overwhelming sense of relief, because Glorfindel _knew_. He could help her find them. "Ai Elbereth, I know. I must – I must go back –" He couldn't finish, his voice was cracking so badly. "I will return tonight." he finally managed to say. "I promise. Stay here and rest." Glorfindel leaned back. When he removed his hands from her Lucy felt the loss so sharply it was like ripping out her own ribs one bone at a time. It was all she could do to keep breathing. In and out went her shallow gasps, her body limp beneath the covers. As the elf lord walked towards the door, maneuvering around Aeloth, Lucy could hear the two of them talking in Quenya. She didn't know which one was more upset.

"Keep her away from the Tower." Glorfindel said. "Understand? She is not to leave the estate unless she is with me."

Aeloth's tone was coldly furious. "Laurëfindil, you cannot do this to her."

"Keep her here. That is an order."

"Laurëfindil, she is too small. She does not understand. If you do this to her, it will hurt her –"

"I said keep her inside the estate!" Glorfindel shouted, and his voice cracked again. "I am – I am your **Lord**! I am not a child anymore! You will follow my orders!" 

Aeloth fell silent, her lips pinching together and expression grim behind her veil. Glorfindel all but fled the area; his hand clasped over his mouth as if to contain a scream. Lucy lay limp on the bed, gasping and wheezing. Something was wrong. Her body was changing. _She_ was changing.

_They_ were missing, and she needed to get them back. It was all she could think about. All she needed.

Glorfindel. Glorfindel would help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	29. His Father's Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised May 16, 2016

The end of October came and went, and before Lucy could really process that it was there, November had arrived and the constant snow became downright treacherous. The situation in the city grew glum.

The winter season that had howled its way down from the encircling mountains was the worst the elves had seen in centuries, and there was so much snow that it made it impossible for **anyone** to get around without difficulty, the Noldor included. All the windows were boarded up, and many of the elves began burning hearth fires to ward off the frigid cold – which for them had finally become a noticeable _chill_. Horses were stabled indefinitely, as were any other domestic animals, and the only elves that ever went anywhere were the soldiers, who traveled by foot across the snowdrifts. Lucy wasn't allowed outside, but even if she had been, she wasn't able to, as she was sick. Always sick, and terribly weak, to the point where even breathing became difficult. Most times she was bedridden.

Aeloth was very worried over her, as was Morwen. Glorfindel was not. He was overly attentive on account of her weakness, but so long as Lucy stayed within arm's reach and in bed, the fact that he knew where she was seemed to calm him somewhat. In the end, this wasn’t too surprising; Glorfindel was coddling on the best of days, and on the worst he was driven by an obsessive need to keep her cossetted. Lucy didn't see him all that often – he was one of the few that needed to brave the storms on a regular basis – but whenever he returned, he was always near. She was beginning to notice that the older she got, the more possessive Glorfindel became. Lucy loved his nearness – loved how he spoiled her, and how he always took care of her – but she was beginning to be worried by the _intensity_ of his focus.

Often, she would wake up in the middle of the night to find Glorfindel sitting by her bedside, stroking her hair. Sometimes he wouldn't come home at night, but she'd see him the next day, and when she did he would always kiss her goodbye and cradle her face, his full lips pressing to the corner of hers. On her good days Lucy was able to return the gesture – she craved the closeness of it, because she was so sheltered that Glorfindel was really the only person she interacted with. But on the bad days, when she was feverish and confined to her bed, the best she could do was paw at his hand while he held her.

Lucy was lonely. So terribly lonely. She was the sort of person who needed affection, and needed it constantly, but she didn’t know how to ask. She had no real friends except for Maeglin, but the storms were too strong for her to see him. Glorfindel was usually gone. The hollowness of her abdomen was sheer torture, and that – more than the hunger – was driving her to madness. Sometimes the dysmorphia was so bad that Lucy had to fight the urge to jump off a cliff. The heartbeats. Where were the heartbeats? Her body wasn't supposed to look like this, and the knowledge of it was killing her. She sort of wanted to die.

"What's wrong with me?" Lucy would ask, half insensible and soaked in sweat as she lay on her bed. The elf lord would always hush her and press his lips to her forehead, his long fingers tangling themselves in her hair as he used his other to rub soothing circles across her belly. Lucy loved it when he touched her there. Whenever he did, the ache receded, but never all the way. Still, it was better than nothing. "Laurëfindil, what's happening –"

"Shh." he would say. Glorfindel's lips were soft against her skin. Whenever he leaned close, Lucy could hear his heart racing. Each day that passed he would act stranger and stranger. If Lucy hadn't been so preoccupied with the emptiness in her belly, she would have been terrified for **him**. Glorfindel didn't seem to be all there these days, and whenever he came home he was stressed out until he touched her.

"It will be alright." Glorfindel would sooth as he massaged her middle and stroked her hair. "You will feel better soon. I promise. Just… just a bit longer."

Aeloth would never tell her what was wrong with Glorfindel, but Lucy surmised that the source of his erratic behaviour had to be the war. The impending bloodshed was upsetting everyone, and Fingon seemed to be directly responsible for putting Glorfindel on edge; whenever his name was mentioned, the ellon would flinch. One time, Lucy overheard Ecthelion arguing with him over it.

"What did you **think** would happen?" the dark-haired Noldo spat, stalking back and forth in the main entrance as Glorfindel feverishly pulled on his cloak and gloves. Lucy had been wrapped in blankets, watching them surreptitiously from the flight of stairs several stories above. She'd been well enough to walk that day, but not well enough to go downstairs.

"This is my house." Glorfindel said in Quenya. His voice had been shaking, he'd been so upset. " **My** house. He cannot take –"

"Edain belong with Edain. You knew this. I **warned** you. I warned you repeatedly, and you still wouldn't listen! The High King has his vassals to contend with. If all they want is for you to hand over your ward, he'll just take her. You have no claim here, and you never will. The sooner you realize this, the better."

Sometimes, when she was filling not so ill, Lucy would join the ellith of Glorfindel's house to partake in embroidery, and when she was with them, the upcoming Solstice was all they would talk about. This was on purpose, of course. No one wanted to face the reality of war while the snow was still there. Everyone was desperately clinging to a collective sort of fantasy.

"Not long now." Nimel said one morning, as she finished the last embroidered dewdrop along the bottom edge of her dress. Lucy had been sitting across from her beside Aeloth, wrapped in blankets and shivering heavily, her own embroidery held listlessly between her hands. She really shouldn't have been out of bed, but at the time she'd been so stir-crazy and tormented by silence that she'd been willing to suffer anyone's company, Nimel's included. The windows of the weaving room had been boarded up, and they were sewing by lamplight. Outside the wind was howling.

Nimel held the dress in front of herself to model it, smiling widely, but there had been a quiet sort of desperation to her voice as she spoke of the Solstice. Beside her, Eleiren grinned and clapped her hands.

"It looks wonderful!" she cooed, and it really did. The lavender hue contrasted beautifully with Nimel's pitch-black hair, but Lucy hadn't cared. She hadn't cared about the Solstice, either. All she cared about was the hunger, and the hollowness inside; how she could hear the heartbeats of the elves sitting several feet away from her but nothing but silence emanating from her belly. Lucy knew she was too sick to go outside, and the storms were too strong, but she wanted to talk to Belor because she was desperate for human company. She wanted to see Maeglin; as much as she loved Glorfindel, she couldn't talk to him like she could talk to the other elf lord. Lucy was drowning in her gilded cage, and there was no escaping it.

"Can I visit Maeglin?" she asked, her words shaky and hoarse. Aeloth turned and gazed at her with what could've been considered sympathy, but it was mixed with admonishment. Lucy knew why. Nimel glared at them.

"No. You are too ill to go out. You need to listen to Laurëfindil."

Aeloth was angry with the elf lord these days, but she still put his happiness first. The elleth was right in that Lucy **was** too ill, however, so she didn't push it. By the end of the day her energy had waned to the point where she was bedridden. It was a common occurrence.

At night when Glorfindel was there, Lucy dreamed. She dreamed of a land in a state of perpetual summer, with fruit heavy on the trees and fields full of flowers. Above her the sky was dark, lit only by a blanket of stars; stars so innumerable and luminous she thought she was standing in the heart of the Milky Way, and maybe she was. It was an alien world, this place she dreamt of. Even more alien than the one she lived in now, and much, much older, but it felt like home. In those dreams her belly was large; her back bowed by its weight and her middle jutting out in front of her. Always, Lucy’s skin was stretched tight beneath a gauzy dress, the constant _pit-pat_ of twin heartbeats keeping her company. Whenever she woke, those heartbeats were gone.

There was a deadness there, now; an unnatural hollowness in her womb that was horrific to contemplate. "Dreams are full of symbols." Tommy had told her once. "That's why I write mine down."

Lucy didn't write down her dreams, but she did think about them a lot. She thought about how **happy** she was in the world made of stars – how utterly content she’d been with the heavy weight resting across her middle – and decided she wanted a baby. Lucy didn't know _why_ she wanted a baby, but she felt incomplete without one. She wouldn’t be so lonely, then.

When Glorfindel wasn't there Lucy dreamed of mountains covered in smoke instead, where the air smelt of sulfur and the ground beneath her feet was hot. One night she found herself in a thicket of thorn-bushes, sitting in a pile of ash and dressed in white. Across from her sat the red-haired ellon with the missing hand. He was wrapped in chains from head to toe, and there were manacles around his wrists and ankles. The look in his eyes was dead.

"Why do you keep coming back?" he asked.

Lucy said nothing at first, running her hands through the volcanic ash and feeling the softness of it clinging to her fingers. It was turning her skin grey. She liked the texture of it and it felt so real, but she knew that it wasn't. The place she was dreaming of **was** real; she just hadn't been there yet. She missed her babies: the ones that she'd misplaced eons before her own existence. She wanted them back.

"Do you know how I can get out?" she asked instead. The ellon just stared at her, bleeding and skewered. His chains looked heavy.

"No." he replied.

"Oh." Lucy said, slightly put off by his abrupt answer and definitely disappointed. She didn't like his mind. He was the most miserable elf she'd ever met, and everything was rotten. She told him so.

"I don't like it here, either." the ellon countered. Then almost as an afterthought, he added, "If you find the way out, come back and tell me. I'm lost."

Lucy nodded. "Okay. I promise."

They didn't speak to each other again.

* * *

"No, not like that." Maeglin said, making a _tch_ sound with his tongue and forcing Lucy to stop her tinkering, his own metallic bauble held deftly between his hands. Lucy started at her contraption in a sluggish manner, and eventually the elf lord sighed and reached over, repositioning her fingers before drawing back.

"Like this, see?" he said. "Outer layer first, top to bottom. Do it again, and don't bend it."

Lucy rubbed at her runny nose and tried again. She was wrapped in blankets and sitting on the floor, visibly shaking and so weak from hunger that she knew if she tried to stand, she'd probably fall. Still, she possessed enough energy that she was able to scrunch up her nose and make a face.

"I wasn't bending it." she groused. Maeglin scrunched up his nose in return so his expression matched hers, his inky hair tied in a hasty knot that rested at the nape of his neck. His legs were crossed as he sat on the floor in front of her, their recent mechanical acquisitions spread out on the tiles between them. They were in his laboratory next to the workbench, and even though they weren't near any windows, Lucy could still hear the roar of the snowstorm. The winter flurries that had arrived in Gondolin earlier that day were deafening.

It was now three weeks into November, and they were trapped indoors because of the snow. Lucy wasn't supposed to be outside at all, but she was so desperately lonely that she'd braved the storm anyways, without Glorfindel's permission. He was away for the next three days, and Aeloth was so busy with preparations for the upcoming Solstice that she'd been too distracted to keep an eye on her. Once the elleth had left her alone for the morning, Lucy had dragged herself out of bed and grabbed a passing servant who'd been on her way to change the linens in Glorfindel's chamber.

The unfortunate elf she'd managed to snag was one of Aeloth's underlings: a nervous, rather short elleth who sometimes helped Lucy dress. The elf was fairly young, and Lucy had noticed some time ago that she hated conflict. It was a lucky catch.

"You." she'd said, struggling for breath. "What's your name?"

"Maeleth, my lady." the elleth replied, eying her apprehensively.

"Can you help me walk to the entrance by the alley? I don't want to tell the guards."

The elleth had quaked in alarm at Lucy's request, clutching the pile of bed sheets close to her front. "You are not supposed to go outside!" she protested, shaking her head and trying to disentangle herself from Lucy's grasp. "It is… it is the Lord Glorfindel's order!"

"Glorfindel isn't **here**." Lucy argued. Although her response had been clipped, she was so desperate to escape that she'd been on the verge of begging. She loved Glorfindel – she really did – but she couldn't stand the loneliness or the isolation any longer. If he was going to lock her away, she needed him there to take care of her.

"I just want to see Maeglin," she reasoned, trying not to cry. She had to leave. She **had** to, but she needed help. "I won't be gone long. I promise, I won't tell them you helped me.

"The Lord Glorfindel –" the elleth continued, but Lucy was done arguing with her. She cut the nervous elleth off.

"Maeglin is my gaoler. The King says I'm allowed to see him, so I'm going to see him. Please, just take me to the door."

"But the guards will know you are gone!" Maeleth insisted. If Lucy had possessed more energy, she would have rolled her eyes at the elleth's nervousness. She was as twitchy as a rabbit, and looked a bit like one too.

"Not if they think I'm still in my room." she hedged. It was an easy solution, and Lucy was annoyed that Maeleth couldn't see the obvious.

Terrified of escalating the argument the elleth had simply nodded, helping her don her cloak and sneaking her downstairs before she all but tossed her out onto the snow. "Promise." the servant had insisted, frantically twisting her dress between her hands as she tried to contain her anxiety. "Promise you won't tell them! The Lord Glorfindel would never forgive me!"

"I promise." Lucy said, but the storm had been so bad that she'd almost regretted her decision. Maeleth fled.

The snow was thick enough that Lucy was blinded by it, the wind so strong it bit into her cheeks like blades. The short walk to Maeglin's estate had taken over an hour, and the only reason she hadn't died on the way was because she was able to guide herself along using nearby buildings. The drifts were packed tight, so Lucy was able to walk on top of them, and she'd been dressed warmly enough not to freeze to death in the first five minutes. Even still, by the time she arrived at Maeglin's estate she'd been shivering violently and nearly delirious; too ill to walk back by herself and so addled by the cold that she'd been babbling.

When he'd seen the condition she was in Maeglin had promptly called her a fool, but he hadn't sent her away. Instead he brought her inside and lit a hearth fire, feeding her tea and giving her blankets with which to wrap herself in. Once she was less chilled he had led Lucy to his laboratory, and there he let her putter about, helping him with simple tasks. Unfortunately for her, the trek outside Glorfindel's estate had wiped her energy, and Lucy had ended up sitting on the floor, staring out at nothing and hating herself for not taking better advantage of her hard-won freedom. Maeglin had brought out their current project for the two of them to tinker on – a pair of mechanical lights that spun when you rocked them, in an effort to keep her awake – but it wasn't working.

Now they were waiting. Just waiting. It was only a matter of time before Aeloth realized where she'd slipped off to, and when she did Lucy knew there would be hell to pay. When Glorfindel discovered what she'd done, he'd be furious. The golden elf was so intent on keeping her indoors that Lucy wouldn't put it past him to chain her to her bed in an effort to keep her safe. It was all he cared about these days – that, and keeping her within reach – but Lucy was miserable. Most of the time he wasn't there, and all around her there were shadows.

"You were too." Maeglin said, when Lucy denied bending the outer wire that circled the lamp. "Do it again."

Lucy rolled her eyes but complied. Beneath her blankets she continued shivering. Maeglin's rooms were warm, but the wind was rattling against his shuttered window, and even in the bowels of his estate Lucy could hear the howl of the storm. It had been snowing non-stop for over a week now, and in the areas of the city that were exposed to the worst of the wind, the buildings were buried by a good twelve feet of snow. Outside of Gondolin, it was even worse.

"And how would you know if I was bending it?" Lucy asked, carefully taking apart the device and following Maeglin's instructions to the letter. She was good with following instructions once she'd been shown how to do something by hand: good with her fingers, and nimble. Glorfindel loved her fingers. When she ran them along the rims of his ears, his eyes would turn black. Even now, Lucy could feel his lips on the pulse of her throat when he kissed her. _You do not understand,_ he'd say, but his own control was badly worn these days, and getting worse. He tried to stay away from her, but he couldn't seem to stop all the same.

"Nimeleth." he'd groan against her skin when she touched his ears. "Nimeleth, do it again." So she would.

Maeglin's instructions worked. This time the mechanical lamp fell apart with a _clang_ , and Lucy watched the pieces roll across the floor with disinterest. Maeglin sighed and picked them up for her, deftly collecting stray screws like a magpie.

"I knew you were bending it because I was watching." he griped, and once he was done collecting the screws he put them in a pile, before completing the same motion Lucy had on his own lamp, but with much more care than her. Lucy watched him. Normally she would have given Maeglin a toothy grin, poking and prodding at his offhand comment, but she was so weak that she didn't have the energy for it. When she spoke, her voice was flat. There was no humour to it.

"Do you watch me a lot?" she asked. The tip of Maeglin's nose and the ridge of his cheekbones turned red, his silky hair sliding free of its knot to slip down the side of his neck. His neck. His **neck**. Lucy swallowed hard and turned away. She wanted to taste him. She wanted his flesh. The only reason she didn't try it was because she was too tired to reach over and grab him. Her shackles were warm around her wrist.

"Yes." the elf lord said. Lucy didn't know what to make of his admission, so she kept quiet as she went back to working on her lamp.

It was a simple thing, the contraption. Maeglin said that ellith hung them in the rooms of their children to distract them; when you lit the lamps, the holes in their sides made the light look like stars. Lucy had been planning on giving her lamp to Erestor, but now she was thinking of giving it to Glorfindel instead; he could gift it to his own children whenever he found his much sought-after wife. Just thinking about the faceless elleth that she'd have to share him with made Lucy feel sick. She didn't want to share him. She only wanted him touching **her**.

"We'll start small." Maeglin had told her over a month ago, when they'd first started building the lamps. "Once this is finished, we'll work our way up to bigger things." And they **had** started small, but Lucy was a fast learner, especially when the object at hand was something that kept her interest. Their work had been progressing quicker than expected.

"Can we make bombs?" Lucy had asked the last time they'd worked together, before Maeglin had tried to kiss her. The elf lord had scrunched up his nose in confusion. " _Bombs_?" He'd parroted, stumbling over the English word. Lucy had searched her brain for the Sindarin equivalent.

"Fire explosions that go _boom_ ," she'd said.

"Oh!" Maeglin exclaimed in understanding, and Lucy had almost been able to visualize the gears and coils working in tandem as he turned the idea over in his head. "You want to make orc artillery?" he asked.

Lucy had nodded. "Yes. To protect the city." She’d thought he'd say _no_ – Glorfindel would have had a heart attack at the mere thought of letting her near anything dangerous – but Maeglin merely _hummed_ and _hawed_ , chewing on his bottom lip in contemplation. Eventually he'd shrugged his shoulders and gone back to working on his lamp. To Lucy, his knack for invention was revolutionary. Gondolin was beautiful and opulent, but the elves were stuck in a medieval era with a medieval mindset. Maeglin was the only elf that Lucy knew who seemed marginally progressive: on anything, really, but especially women. It was probably because of his mother.

"I don't see why not." Maeglin had said. "They **are** coming here. But don't tell my uncle, you hear? I'm not supposed to let you near any weapons, and artillery is dangerous. Uncle does not like it, but the Fëanorians do."

"Really?"

"Yes." he said, nodding in a distracted manner as he replaced another bolt. "They have siege weapons as big as Morgoth's; trebuchets and firestars and howling cannons. Their father helped design them."

"I thought elves didn't like _machinery_."

Maeglin shrugged and continued working. He hadn't looked up.

"Most don't. Fëanorians will make weapons out of anything, but they have to, you see? My uncles live in the north. It's stupid to depend on trees when you need metal to protect you." Lucy had agreed with him wholeheartedly.

"So you'll show me, then?"

Maeglin had hummed again and nodded his head. Then he’d looked up, wagging his screwdriver at her like an old man, his brows furrowed. "And you," he'd said. "You have to get better at building. Otherwise you'll blow off your arm." Lucy had rolled her eyes.

"Yes, grandpa." she drawled. Maeglin sneered, but there had been no malice behind it.

"Gremlin." he quipped, and Lucy had laughed. The two of them went back to tinkering, their work punctuated by companionable bickering.

Their current meeting was much more sombre, now. There was no comfortable air between them as there had been before. Lucy supposed this was partially because Maeglin had tried to kiss her – both of them were pretending it had never happened – but it was mostly due to Lucy being sick, and the war. At night the dreams felt so real to her. Constantly, she would wake up crying; when she saw her body in the mirror Lucy would cry even harder, utterly devastated by the _flatness_ of it. Aeloth seemed to understand what was upsetting her, but her words of comfort rang hollow. Whenever Morwen saw her moping around, she would get angry.

"They are playing tricks on you." she would say. "They are Noldor. **He** is Noldor. Do not fall for it." But Lucy didn't think it was a trick, nor did she think Glorfindel was the one to start it. She’d felt the small changes inside of her happening every day ever since the baramog’s attack, utterly meaningless by themselves but adding up to something important. Every second that she spent away from the elf lord was sheer torture, but Glorfindel was simply too busy to spend time with her. He wouldn't abandon his duties to the city, even if it was making both of them miserable.

Lucy snapped out of her meandering thoughts when she felt a hand on her face. Slim, cool fingers alighted ever so softly on her cheek, and when they did Lucy startled hard at the contact. It was only then that she realized that she'd been listing over; her eyelids heavy and her hands slack. Maeglin was leaning forward to reach her, his dark hair entirely loose and falling in a glossy sheet down his front. Lucy rarely saw him sporting any expression other than mild amusement or sarcastic disdain, but now he was looking at her with what appeared to be actual concern.

"Are you alright?" the elf lord asked. 'You're very…" he paused, as if searching for the right words. "You're very pale. Almost blue."

Lucy knew she was pale. When she looked at herself in the mirror these days, her complexion was so pallid her skin was like paper. There was deep purple bruising around her eyes from lack of sleep.

"I'm no paler than you are." Lucy mumbled. Maeglin rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind the gesture.

"Not really." he countered. "You look like a corpse."

"Well **thanks**." Lucy quipped. She thought the elf lord would laugh or smirk, but he didn't. Instead Maeglin's expression grew more severe. Lucy wondered why until his hand was suddenly on her arm and he was holding her up, to keep her from falling flat on her face.

"Perhaps you should go back," he suggested, looking to the side. "I'll give you an escort." He didn't sound happy with the offer, but his concern was evident this time. Lucy managed to find enough energy to laugh, but it was painful. Her insides were aching.

"You'd send me back? Willingly?" she asked. Maeglin sneered, but the gesture seemed half-hearted.

"You're no use to me dead." he reasoned. There was a slight flush to his cheeks as he looked anywhere but her. "Besides, if you died on my doorstep the Vanya would skin me."

Lucy's expression fell into a frown; her lower lip wobbled, and her eyes felt wet. She clenched her right hand against her abdomen, her thin fingers curling into the fabric. Glorfindel. She missed Glorfindel. She needed him so much.

"Don't send me back," she said. "Please. Just wait until they send someone to find me."

"Why?" Maeglin asked suspiciously.

"I'm lonely." Lucy blurted out before she could stop herself. "Really lonely. There's no one here like me." And then the tears were coming, hot and thick. Lucy hated herself for it. She never cried in front of Maeglin, but she'd never needed to before. She sniffled noisily, reaching up with her hand to rub the tears from her eyes, but they just kept falling.

"There's another Edain in the city." she said, and suddenly she was admitting everything about the encounter that had bugged her so much; the things she didn't dare tell Glorfindel, for fear of upsetting him. "There's another Edain in the city, but they won't let me speak to him. They won't let me go outside and they won't let me see other people. When he tried to speak to me I couldn't understand him. He was human, but I couldn't relate to him at all. I could only speak Sindarin, and I have no human house and no human family and everyone here looks at me like a rat. I'm so **lonely**."

Slowly Maeglin's hand slid from her upper arm down to her hand, where he clasped her fingers between his own, eying them in contemplation. Their skin was the same color now, and Maeglin was **so** pale.

"They don't look at you like a rat." the elf lord began, his voice terse. "Trust me." He swallowed visibly, and Lucy had to look away so she wouldn't see the bobbing motion of his throat.

"That's not the point." she insisted. She didn't really know what the point was, except that she was sad and so, so frustrated all the time. Lucy couldn't express herself in the way that she wanted to; she couldn't explain herself in Sindarin, and she couldn't speak the common tongue, either. The elves had made sure of that. "I'm not **you**." Lucy finally settled on, gesturing helplessly to herself, then to Maeglin. "I'm not you, and he looked like **me**. He was short like me and he had the same ears as me and he was mortal like me –"

But Maeglin was chuckling; laughing, almost, and his laughter was desperate. Lucy watched as a strange sort of hunger began to etch its way across his features, his free hand curling into a fist against his thigh. There was a slightly crazed glint to his eyes. It was probably the most _honest_ she’d ever seen him look, and for a moment Lucy didn't really know what to do about it. Maybe he'd been honest when he'd tried to kiss her, but she was trying very hard not to dwell on that, because thinking about Maeglin made her think about Glorfindel, and how she wanted him to kiss her, too. Lucy wanted him inside her.

"You don't look like the Edain." Maeglin said. He was still laughing, his thumb running in languid circles across the top of her palm. "Why do you think the others always watch you? Why do you think the Vanya stole you from –" He paused and swallowed heavily, before trying again. "You are soft and small and delicate, and your skin… to touch it, to feel it… and there is this scent –" Again he paused, and swallowed hard. "You are not Eldar. You do not look of the Eldar, but you are still lovely. You will die young, and it is a waste. Such a waste. I **hate** the Valar."

Lucy swallowed nervously and looked away, rubbing at her eyes. She thought of Maeglin's family, then – of his mother dead, and what his father had done – and drew her hand back, burying it in the folds of her skirt. When Maeglin touched her she felt so sad. She got along with him so well, and he was the closest thing she had to a friend, but Lucy wanted Glorfindel more.

"Have you talked to your uncle yet?" she asked, staring at her lap and desperate to change the topic. Maeglin snorted in derision, but he didn't go back to working on his lamp, nor did he press her on their previous conversation. Lucy didn't think he was looking at her, either; she couldn't feel his eyes on her. Maybe he was staring at his lap, too.

"Fingon?" he queried. "Why would I want to talk to him?"

Lucy rubbed at her eyes again.

"I don't know," she mumbled, swaying where she sat. "Because he's your uncle? Because of the war? You're a lord, too."

"I barely know him." Maeglin spat. There was bitterness to his tone, and anger. "This is my first time meeting him. When I was young I lived in the south in Sindar Territory. I grew up in Nan Elmoth. I had no reason to talk to my uncle."

Again Lucy was reminded of the brief chapter she'd read in _The Silmarillion_ about Maeglin's mother and father. She didn't want to ask – and knew that she shouldn't – but the urge was there and she felt compelled to. The knowledge of what had happened was hanging like a pall over her shoulders. Before she could speak however, Lucy listed over, her vision swimming and her breath quickening as a dizzy spell hit her full force. Maeglin's hand immediately went to her shoulder, holding her steady so she would stay upright. He was leaning closer, now; close enough that Lucy could almost taste the odd scent clinging to his skin, a mixture of metal and something _sweetish._ When she looked up, she could see the pale column of his neck; could hear the sound of his blood pumping steadily beneath.

"I think you need to go back," the elf lord said. "You do not look well."

"Did your father rape your mother?" Lucy blurted out.

Maeglin's eyes went wide, his hand drawing back so fast it was if she had burned him. For a second Lucy saw it; horrifying realization that the secret was _out_ , coupled with child-like despair. Then his features twisted, his lips turning down into a frown as he bared his teeth in a furious grimace.

"What?" he spat. His voice cracked over the word, there was so much anger behind it. Lucy just sat there, rubbing at her throat; trying to get out the right words when it mattered the most, but she couldn't. She hadn't meant to upset him.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her own voice cracked over the dryness that permeated the air, so she tried again. She was just so lonely, and desperate for understanding. She hadn't thought any of it through. "I'm sorry. I saw, in the books – I see, and I thought –"

"You thought what?" Maeglin snapped as he struggled to his feet, dark eyes hard with rage and fingers curling into fists as he began to shake all over. "You thought **what** , you disgusting little creature? Poor little bastard? Can't help that he's Moriquendi? Give him a lordship because you don't know what else to do with him?!"

"No, that's not it at all! That's not what I meant –"

"WHAT, LUCY? WHAT DID YOU MEAN?!" He was screaming now, his voice filling up the room. Lucy had never seen him angrier.

"THAT WE'RE THE SAME!" she screamed back, struggling to her own feet and reaching for him. She was so exhausted and upset that she could barely stand. "That we were unwanted, and _off,_ and our insides were the same –"

Maeglin hit her; striking her so hard across the face her head snapped to the side and she went sprawling across the floor. Lucy hit her head off the corner of the nearby workbench as she fell, and when she landed she instinctively curled up into a ball, coughing hard. She saw stars.

He'd hit her. He'd actually **hit** her. There was blood running from her nose. Everything hurt.

"I AM NOT MY FATHER!" Maeglin screamed, kicking his lamp aside with his foot. When it didn't go far enough, he let out an inarticulate sound of rage and reached down to grab both their lamps, hurling them against the wall. The two half-finished contraptions broke into dozens of pieces, clattering down in a noisy jumble of metal screws. Lucy curled in on herself, covering her head, her dress slipping down her shoulder and her head ringing from the blow. Her nose wouldn't stop bleeding.

"I am not my father!" Maeglin raged. "I am not, I am not –" he gasped loudly, then let out a moan that sounded closer to a sob. Lucy stayed where she was, shivering violently. Above her the elf lord ran his pale hands over his face, digging his nails into his skin and leaving red, weeping marks behind. He was crying.

"Get out," he said, clenching his fingers in his hair. His words were gnarled, twisting like roots through his teeth. "Get **out**."

Lucy tried. She licked the blood running from her nose across her split lip, and attempted to stand, but her arms were shaking and her legs were like jello. The world around her seemed to be spinning. All she wanted to do was to curl up and hide.

"Get out!" Maeglin screamed. Lucy started crawling.

With trembling hands she reached for the workbench in an attempt to pull herself up, but she was moving so slowly that Maeglin called for his servants. A few moments later one of them came rushing into the room in a loud rustle of robes. Lucy felt a hand gripping her forearm, pulling her upright; was barely conscious of the fact that she was being dragged upstairs and into the main hallway until they were almost at the doors. It was only then that she realized that the person pulling her along was Ivorast, Maeglin's perpetually anxious seneschal.

"What did I do wrong?" Lucy managed to ask through chattering teeth as he got a servant to quickly bundle her up. The look the seneschal gave her was one of pity.

"You should not come back," he said, and then she was all but tossed out into the cold. Lucy was escorted back to Glorfindel's estate by one of Maeglin's guards. She was shaking all over from the shock of having the elf lord hit her, but within a few moments the shaking became from the cold. _Home_ , Lucy though with a hysterical sort of canter as she struggled through the snow. She needed to go home and hide in her bed, where it was nice and safe and warm.

It wasn't long before the guard had to pick her up to keep her from freezing. When they neared the estate, Lucy tugged on his cloak to get him to put her down; she didn't want anyone else to see him bringing her back inside. She didn't want Glorfindel to know that she'd gone to Maeglin's.

"Will you be alright?" the guard asked. He looked identical to the gaolers that had kept her locked in the dungeons, but the expression behind his silver helm – from what Lucy could see of it – was kind. She sniffled and nodded _yes_ , and without a word the guard turned and left in a swirl of black to disappear into the storm. Lucy wandered inside the estate on shaky legs, using the back door that emerged onto the alley. As she entered she tugged her hood further around her face. She knew that Glorfindel's guards would spot her entering and report it later, but she hoped the cloak would hide her dishevelled appearance. Her fingers and toes were numb.

Lucy managed to climb the steps of the keep by herself, and once she was inside she took the servant's stairwell all the way up to her room. As she walked she gripped the nearby wall, shuffling forward in a haze and finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. _Just a bit longer,_ she told herself, _then you can rest._ But the weeks of constant hunger and mental strain – combined with the blow to her head –made her insensible.

Through some wild stroke of luck, Lucy managed to make it back to her room without being disturbed. Once she was there she crawled into bed, cloak and all. She was too tired to take them off and slept for the rest of the day, straight into the evening. Later, she was woken by Aeloth, who threw open her door and came storming inside. The elleth stopped short when she saw her huddled beneath the covers.

"Lucy?" she said.

When Lucy didn't answer, the elleth stalked forward, concern and anger coloring her normally placid voice. "Lucy!" she exclaimed, coming around to stand beside the bed to yank her covers back. "Lucy, where have you been? Why did you leave your guards?! We almost sent out a search party. Laurëfindil would have been **furious** –"

The elleth abruptly stopped as she caught sight of Lucy's disheveled appearance, taking in the way she just lay there, her fingers curling against the bed sheets. A minute passed, and then the elleth began pulling back the rest of the covers. Lucy felt the elf hovering over her as she reached out; her fingers peeling back her over-sized cloak to reveal the rest of her, before the elleth brushed Lucy's hair away from her face to get a better look. She prodded at her head ever so gently where her locks were matted with blood.

Lucy flinched at the contact, and the elleth immediately drew back and said nothing. Lucy said nothing either, because she was tired, but then Aeloth was crouching in front of her, her fingers kneading nervously against the covers. She reached out and grasped Lucy's hand with her own. Lucy watched her through the slit of her eyelid, the other half of her face hidden against her pillow.

"Lucy." Aeloth said gently. She shook Lucy's hand a bit, and when Lucy didn't respond she shook it harder. "Child, I need you to stay awake for me. I think you might have a concussion. Do you understand? I must fetch some things, but I will be back soon."

Lucy didn't acknowledge her. The elleth stood, drawing the covers carefully around her shoulders before she all but ran from the room. Lucy didn’t feel like listening to Aeloth's orders, however, or doing much of anything, so once the elf was gone she went back to sleep. _Tomorrow,_ she promised herself. _Tomorrow I'll deal with it._ The taste of her own blood had triggered her hunger, and if she moved too much, it became insatiable.

All was darkness for a long, long time, but later that evening Lucy heard Glorfindel enter her room. There was a clenching sensation in her belly that woke her up; her breaths growing short as her body registered that he was there, before her mind was fully conscious. He wasn't supposed to be back for several days, but she heard the loud _jerk_ of her door being thrown open all the same. When he got close, Lucy knew it was him. The elf lord smelt of snow and pine needles, which was what he always smelt like when he returned from the mountains. Lucy lay still for what felt like forever, drifting in-between sleep and wakefulness, before there was a _dipping_ sensation on her mattress; the feeling of large hands sliding beneath her ever so carefully as the elf lord lifted her up.

One of his arms wrapped around her back, the other cradling the side of her head like a baby's. Glorfindel's fingers shook as he brushed her hair away from her face, and when he saw the mottled bruising across her cheekbone, Lucy heard a soft choking sound, like his breath was caught in his throat. Warm, full lips pressed a kiss to the cut on her forehead, then another to her split lip. As the elf lord drew her to him, settling himself atop the mattress with his back resting against the headboard, Lucy could feel him shaking.

"Glorfindel?" Lucy mumbled once he was settled, not bothering to open her eyes. The elf lord cupped her cheek, his thumb running across her split lip before he leaned down and kissed her again. Lucy took comfort in his presence; felt a balm of peace wash over her when he touched her, and for a moment the emptiness was not so bad. "I missed you," she admitted, still half asleep.

Glorfindel kept trembling, and his trembling got worse. At first Lucy thought he was trying to hold back his tears, but when she finally opened her eyes she realized he was shaking with fury.

The ellon was white. White as a sheet, his skin drained of color. His eyes were glowing bright blue, lighting up like matchsticks in the dark. The blue was **so** bad that bits of it were leaking down his cheeks from his eyes, traveling beneath his skin like neon veins. Lucy hadn't seen Glorfindel look like that since the baramog's attack, and even then his reaction had been of fear, and not of anger. He was slightly terrifying in that moment, as he didn't seem to be able to control the shaking. Just watching him made Lucy's heart hurt.

Slowly she reached up, sluggishly putting a hand to his face and smoothing it across the strange blue veins etching their way across his features. Glorfindel automatically leaned into her touch.

"Does the blue hurt?" she asked. She hoped it didn't.

"Who?" the elf lord spat. He was so angry he was barely able to articulate himself, and he didn't stop shaking. " **Who**?"

Lucy didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to think about how she'd asked the wrong thing at the wrong time or the sense of betrayal that she felt when she thought about the fact that Maeglin had hit her. _I am not my father!_ He'd screamed, and then he'd ordered her to get out. The war. It had to be the upcoming war. It was making everyone miserable, and Lucy was sure that Maeglin wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been so stressed out.

"I was lonely." Lucy said, by way of explanation. She really was. The loneliness was eating at her these days, and it was getting worse – not better – the longer she stayed in Gondolin. The isolation from her own kind and the delayed effects of culture shock were crippling.

When she spoke, Glorfindel curled around her. Lucy turned into him, her fingers gripping the front of his tunic and she buried her face against his chest and began to drift back towards sleep. Glorfindel was angry, Lucy knew, but he wouldn't hurt her. He'd cut off his own arm before he did that. She was safe. It was all she could ask for, really. All she needed.

She just wanted his company, to fill up the hollowness inside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	30. Beloved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised June 9, 2016

The morning after the incident, Glorfindel joined them for breakfast. Lucy had woken up to find him gone, but Aeloth had been in her chamber.

Very slowly – and with a terse sort of silence – she'd given Lucy a bath, before dressing her cuts. She’d put a salve on her forehead to reduce the swelling and take away the ache, but still the wounds were on full display; a deep discoloration across the right cheekbone and eye socket, along with mottled bruising along her forehead from where she'd struck it on the bench. Her bottom lip was also split, and there were splotches of blue on her hands and wrists from the way that she'd landed. Lucy refused to talk about where she'd gotten the injuries, but she knew that her silence was useless. The elves of Glorfindel's household were fairly adept at figuring out her whereabouts, and they'd probably realized where she'd run off to from scent alone. Glorfindel had more than likely smelt Maeglin on her. He didn't talk about how sharp his senses were, but Lucy knew that they were.

As Aeloth helped her dress for breakfast, the elleth informed her that Glorfindel would be staying with them for the next few days – perhaps even the entire week. Lucy was relieved to hear this news, but somewhat confused by it.

"I thought he was on patrol," she offered weakly. Towards the top of her room near the rafters, a bit of snow drifted in. It was still storming, and showed no signs of stop.

"He has abdicated his duties for the time being." Aeloth explained as she braided her hair. "He thought it best that he stayed home, with you." There was a moment of silence, and then Aeloth spoke again. "I am very disappointed in you, child. You were expressly forbidden from going outside. You made Laurëfindil worry terribly."

Lucy swallowed hard and looked down at her lap, clenching her hands in her dress and fighting the urge to scream. She was so frustrated and tired, but the loneliness was making her desperate. Begging looked more appealing every day. She didn't like her cage.

"I'm sorry –" she began, but Aeloth cut her off before she could finish. "It does not matter," she said smoothly. "You will stay inside now, where it is safe. We will see to it." There was a finality to her statement that was chilling.

Lucy's gait was still shaky as she walked down the hall to the dining room; Aeloth had to grip her elbow to keep her from falling over. When they arrived Glorfindel was already there. He was slouched low in his chair, sipping on some strange amber liquid from a silvery goblet. His golden hair was loose and tumbling down his front in waves, his expression stony. When he raised the goblet to his lips, Lucy was slightly shocked to see that his knuckles were raw, the skin red and split open. It was the first time she’d seen the elf lord with any sort of visible injury, and from the way that Aearmarth and the rest of the elves in his household were avoiding his gaze, it didn't seem to be a regular occurrence.

The ellon had been staring out the window when they'd entered, but once Lucy stepped through the door he turned his head their way. Aeloth helped her to her seat, and Lucy sunk down into the chair with a clumsy _thud_. Her joints felt stiff, and sitting so close to Glorfindel her thirst was insatiable. She needed to feed. She really, **really** needed to feed, but she was too scared to tell the elf lord about it. She had no one to turn to. Lucy wanted to cry she was so hungry. She wanted a baby, too.

Breakfast was utterly unbearable, and while Lucy normally didn't mind the silence, there was a searing sort of tension beneath the stillness that day: a feeling of fire in her throat. Soon she began to feel a burning heat across her skin that spread down her front from her breasts to her belly, before finally pooling between her legs. Lucy didn't know what was causing the sensation, and she didn't know what _it_ was, but the feeling was wholly consuming, her insides aching with need. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking down at her plate to try and hide the blush that was spreading across her face and her throat. Lucy rarely blushed – her skin wasn't prone to it, these days – but for some reason she couldn't control it. Her senses felt heightened, and her breathing grew short. Surreptitiously, Lucy tried to rub her legs together to get rid of the ache, but it didn't fade. If anything, it got worse.

Beside her, Glorfindel continued watching. She could feel his gaze trailing over her body, from her bared shoulders to where the flush had finally spread to her breasts. Every now and then Aeloth would look up and give the elf lord a reproachful stare, but for the most part she followed her brother's behaviour and pretended he wasn’t there. Lucy surmised this was due to Glorfindel’s foul mood, as he didn't look willing to tolerate any sort of dissent. The more he stared at her, the more she ached; when Lucy discreetly slid her hands between her thighs and clamped down on them to try and still her shaking, Glorfindel saw the action.

Tears prickling at her eyes, Lucy bit down on her bottom lip to try and stop it from trembling, but it didn't work. The ache was intolerable. The entrance between her legs felt moist.

Beside her she heard the shift of movement; the _clink_ of a goblet being placed on the table and rustle of heavy fabric as Glorfindel pushed himself back in his chair to remove his outer robe. A moment later, Lucy felt him drape it over her shoulders, tucking it around her front with excessive care to hide her heady flush. The elf lord placed his hand on her head, ever so briefly; slender fingers cupped the back of her neck in comfort, before he withdrew and returned to nursing his wine.

The ache didn't desist, nor did the shaking, but Lucy felt a rush of gratitude so strong she almost cried, her fingers curling in the pale green fabric of his robe. He knew she was hurting. Glorfindel knew she was in pain, and he wouldn't leave her alone. He **cared**.

Across the table, the clatter of Aeloth's utensils could be heard as she angrily put them down, followed by the sound of someone picking out a piece of fruit from a bowl. The room was silent beyond that. All Lucy could discern was the crackle of the hearth-fire and the muted roar of the snowstorm.

"Do you wish me to reschedule next week's appointments for today?" Aearmarth finally asked, breaking the silence. He rarely said anything around Lucy, and usually took a backseat to his sister's protestations. Aeloth was angry that morning, however – almost furious – and she refused to look Glorfindel in the eye. As she put down her spoon, the elleth wiped her hands against the front of her napkin, her dark navy veil hanging around her face like a shroud. Lucy huddled beneath Glorfindel's robe and shook.

"No." the elf lord said tersely, and didn't elaborate. Lucy caught the swinging motion of his hair as he shifted in his seat, his glossy waves tumbling downwards to spiral into curls hanging just above the floor. Beneath the fall of his golden tresses, the ellon was wearing clothes that were various shades of beryl green, his oversized tunic held in place by an intricately jewelled belt slung low over his hips. A dirk was attached to the right side of it. As Glorfindel sipped on his wine, Lucy eyed the spot between his legs; the large bulge she could discern beneath the thickness of his tunic, cushioned below the rise of his belt. In an instant she remembered the way his hips had pressed against hers – the hardness that had nestled itself against her belly, several weeks prior – and it was all she could do not to climb on top of him and press herself to it in an effort to relieve the ache. The heat pooling in her belly began to boil.

"Lucy." Aeloth said, taking a sip of her water before setting her glass down with a _clack_. Lucy quickly looked away, staring towards her own lap. When she did so, she felt Glorfindel's attention turn to her once more. His heady stare rested on her bowed neck, and briefly, Lucy wondered if he knew that she'd been looking at _that_.

"After breakfast you will join myself and the others in the weaving room." Aeloth continued. "I must put the finishing touches on your dress for the Solstice."

It was a mundane statement – so mundane it almost felt sacrilegious to mention it in the quietness of the room – but Lucy was sure that the elleth had done it on purpose. In response she said nothing, spooning listlessly at her food. The hearth fire crackled and popped. Beside her Glorfindel shifted in his chair, his robes rustling loudly across his seat. 

"What is wrong with her old dress?" he demanded. Aeloth finally acknowledged him with a sigh of exasperation. When she spoke, her tone was sharp and brittle.

"The High King will be attending. The first dress is not appropriate."

Glorfindel's respond was unusually savage, so much so that Lucy actually jumped in her seat with fear. "It does not matter what the High King thinks of her. She is fine **here**.”

Aeloth's response was in Quenya, and somewhat sad. "She is a member of this house, Laurëfindil. Of **course** it matters. You know this."

Glorfindel waved his hand dismissively, slouching low in his chair as he crossed his legs at his ankles. Lucy watched the movement, entranced by the sinuous shape of his feet. Everything about the ellon’s body seemed to fascinate her these days, and she couldn't stop staring. It was because she missed him, she reasoned, and it was partially true. Lucy yearned for the elf lord's company with a feverish intensity, and she was willing to give up what little freedom she had if it meant he'd stay with her on a near-constant basis. Just the thought of Glorfindel leaving was enough to bring her to tears. She'd die if he abandoned her.

"Save the fitting until later." Glorfindel insisted. He was picking at the pastry on his plate with delicate fingers, but he didn't eat it. "I must take her somewhere first."

"Where?" Aeloth asked suspiciously. Glorfindel's response was churlish and evasive. 

"Not far. You can see her later." 

"Laurëfindil –" 

"She is **my** ward."

Lucy could tell from the heavy silence that Aeloth was dying to make a retort, but the elleth held her tongue. Aearmarth studiously ignored the drama while Lucy picked at her food. Glorfindel continued nursing his wine as the snow fell in blinding sheets, the wind whistling down through the crevices of nearby buildings. Once more, an unbearable tension fell across the room.

After breakfast was complete, Lucy was taken downstairs and bundled into her winter cloak; the pale blue one that Glorfindel had given her, the hood and mantle edged with fox fur. A thick woolen scarf was wrapped around her neck to keep out the chill, her feet shoved into fur-lined boots and her hands covered with fur-edged mittens. It was bitterly cold out; even standing in the entrance to the keep, there was a draft. Bits of snow whispered along the floor, while icicles had begun forming in the cracks along the windows. Lucy sniffled and shivered. She wasn't feeling up to going out, and after yesterday's incident she'd been convinced that they would never let her leave again. It was because Glorfindel was taking her, she decided. His word was law here, and if he decided she was allowed outside, then she could do so. With anyone else it would’ve been forbidden.

Beside her, Glorfindel was pulling on his own winter cloak. He was far less susceptible to the cold than Lucy was, but he still hated it. _Summer Child_ , the minstrel Cirhíl had said. _Prince of the Flowers._ Lucy didn't like the dark-haired Noldo, but in that regard his words rang true. Glorfindel despised the chill; he loved summer and spring and fields filled with flowers. Lucy just wished that he were around more often. She wished he were home, so she had someone to talk to. She wished Maeglin –

_No. No, don't think about it. It didn't happen._ And like a switch had been flipped, Lucy shut the idea down.

"You should not be taking her outside." Aeloth was saying to Glorfindel, using a placating tone that she often resorted to when she was trying to convince the ellon not to do something stupid. "The snow is too deep. She cannot walk in it. You can take her outside tomorrow when she is well."

"It is fine." Glorfindel muttered, more concerned with his hair getting caught in the clasp on his cloak than listening to his former nanny's instructions. "I will carry her." Aeloth's expression twisted into something unpleasant.

"Laurëfindil." she said in a low voice, speaking in Quenya. The elleth was pleading. "Laurëfindil, you need to stop _rushing_. I know you are scared, but you need to calm yourself. She is so small, and she does not understand. It is bad for her health."

Glorfindel outright ignored Aeloth's protestations, his expression distant, but Lucy had known him long enough to realize just how upset he was; how badly he was trying to hide it. His eyes were luminous with moisture, his lips pinching into a thin line as tremors ran along his hands. Lucy felt her insides clench at his distress, and found herself overwhelmed with the urge to comfort him. Her throat was burning with the thirst, however, and her belly felt hollow. The urge to feed was so strong that she was scared that she would attack him if she stepped nearer.

When the guards opened the doors, Lucy was greeted with a blast of frozen air and nothing but whiteness. The sky was dark, but the day was bright from the glare of the snow. There was so much snow that the stairs leading up to the keep were completely submerged, and the entrance to the estate was buried under a good ten feet of it. Lucy startled slightly as a hand slid across her back and under her arm. Beside her Glorfindel bent down and put his other hand beneath her knees, hoisting her up so he could hold her close to his chest. Lucy instinctively leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face his hair. It smelt like sunflowers, and she loved the texture of it; wished in an abstract sort of way that she could stay cocooned by him forever, as being held by Glorfindel brought her an immeasurable amount of relief. 

The elf lord moved his head, pressing his lips to her ear.

"Are you warm enough?" he murmured, and Lucy nodded. Once she did his words turned into a kiss as Glorfindel pressed his lips to her temple. Then he carried her outside.

Soon they were surrounded by nothing but the whiteness of the snowstorm. As Glorfindel walked, Lucy huddled against him, her mitten-clad hands curling between them as she tried to make herself smaller for warmth. The elf lord still sunk into the snowdrifts up to his ankles, but for the most part he was able to glide across the top without difficulty. It was something all the elves were able to do, Morwen had told her, although Sindar were much better at it, as they were smaller.

Glorfindel held her close as he kept walking, heading towards his private courtyard at the far end of the estate, then deeper still: back through the golden trees in his frostbitten garden until they reached the far wall of the alcove, which was entirely ensconced in ivy. Lucy thought there was nothing but a wall in front of them, but when they approached Glorfindel shifted her higher so he could hold her with one arm. He then pressed his hand against the barricade with the other. When he did so, the solid wall gave way with an icy _crack_ , the partition separating and sliding sideways to reveal a passage.

The elf lord ducked low to avoid his hair getting caught in the ivy, and Lucy let out a soft sound of surprise. Once inside, the ellon began walking down a narrow tunnel coated in creeping vines. The wind was lesser here, the snow not so deep, but it was still bitterly cold. Lucy lifted her head, looking around herself with sluggish curiosity. The passage was obviously part of Glorfindel's estate, but she'd never seen it before. It was an entrance to a secret garden, cloistered away from the rest of the world.

"Was this always here?" she asked. Even though she couldn't see his face, Lucy could feel the grimace on Glorfindel features as he talked.

"Yes." he said. He sounded deeply unhappy.

"Why couldn't I see it before?"

"I hid it with an illusion." he admitted slowly. There was an awful sort of sadness to Glorfindel’s tone. "I did not… I did not wish to see it. Aeloth told me I should take it down, but I built it for the children, in case they –" The elf lord couldn't finish, his voice hitching with pain.

At the mention of children, Lucy's own gut clenched with a splitting sort of spasm. For a moment the body dysmorphia was so deep she couldn't breathe. Babies. Her **babies**. She'd lost the children, but the past and the present were mingling together, and she couldn't tell if the thought was hers or somebody else's. She desperately wanted them back.

Lucy tightened her arms around Glorfindel's neck, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry," she said. She didn't really know _what_ she was apologizing for, or _why_. "I'm sorry. I'll find them for you."

The elf lord turned his head and returned her kiss, pressing his lips to her cheekbone. The gesture was fervent and full of sadness. "It is not your fault," he mumbled into her hair. Lucy went limp against his chest, sinking into his touch. "Never your fault. I am so sorry I was not there." Above them, the vines twisted together like fingers. Glorfindel made no other sound as he trekked across the curving snowdrifts. Not long afterwards they came to the end of the tunnel, and when they did the breeze abruptly died down.

Lucy looked up as Glorfindel set her on her feet. The snow was still deep here, but not nearly as deep as it was in the open, and soon Lucy saw why. They were standing in a private courtyard; a small, oval-shaped garden completely overgrown with gnarled white trees that spiraled in on themselves, their pale branches spreading outwards and knotting together along the top to protect the grotto from the world outside. Everywhere there were vines; vines on the walls and vines on the trees, creeping across the ground and growing together so thickly that it gave the garden a womb-like effect. Inside the courtyard the sounds from outside were muffled and soft, and immediately Lucy was overwhelmed with a sense of safeness. _My garden_ , she thought, but she didn't know why.

There wasn't much in the way of civilization amongst the overgrown flora. Lucy spied a pale marble statue in the center of it all beneath a large white tree. Off to the left side against a vine-covered wall, there was a delicately carved stone bench. As he stood her up, Glorfindel's hand slipped beneath her cloak to rest against her lower back, but Lucy barely registered the weight of it.

"In the spring the vines flower." the elf lord explained. "So do the trees." There was a distance to his voice; an old pain that he was trying to hold back, but it wasn't working. "I had wished to show you this before the winter arrived, on your begetting day, but the snow came early. And I do not… I do not know if I will be here in the spring. I am sorry." The hand on her back began stroking up and down.

Lucy continued to look around the area with wide-eyed curiosity. At first she thought he meant to show her the garden _itself_ , but then her eyes landed on the statue once more. A second later, she realized who the effigy was supposed to represent.

It was Tommy.

The features were slightly off – more of an approximation than anything else – but even from a distance Lucy could recognize her best friend. She knew that short, slightly rotund figure, the rounded nose and the nondescript hair that curled into gentle wisps below her chin. The statue was wearing an elvish dress, but the face was Tommy's; the hands were hers, and so was the smile. It was a memorial.

When Lucy clued in to this fact, she let out a loud, shuddering gasp of shock. Her knees went weak, causing her to sway where she stood. Glorfindel had to quickly dart forward, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her upright.

"I am sorry it took so long to complete," the elf lord said. His tone was softer than it had been at the dinner table when he'd been arguing with Aeloth. "I had to talk to those that… to those that saw the body before it…" the ellon paused, as if searching for the right word. Lucy could almost feel his frustration when he was unable to articulate himself properly. "Before it _crumbled_." he finally settled on. "You wished to have her back, but I could not bring her back, and I wanted –"

"What about the bones?" Lucy asked. Tommy's bones. She needed the bones. She'd wanted them for over a year, but Turgon had reneged on his promise and never returned them to her.

"Buried beneath." Glorfindel said. "Before the snow came." Then he added, more hesitantly "I hope… I hope this is appropriate. I am sorry. I do not know how Edain honor their dead. I had to ask Morwen –"

But already Lucy was drifting away from him, wobbling towards the memorial on shaky legs. She reached for it with both hands, uncaring of the cold. The statue was even lovelier up close, and larger than life. When she drew near, Lucy could see that Tommy's expression was one of a smile. Her eyes were downcast as she looked towards the ground, but she seemed happy and serene. Letting out a trembling breath, Lucy removed her mittens and reached for Tommy's face; running her bare hands over the statue's marble features as she felt the bumps and whorls. She leaned against the effigy and kissed its features, caressing its lips and cheeks and eyes. It was the closest Lucy had been to Tommy since they'd landed in Middle-earth, and for what felt like an eternity she just stood there, stroking the statue and thinking about all she'd lost and all she'd left behind.

When Lucy remembered the bones that were buried beneath, she looked down and saw a slab of marble, half covered by the snow. There was a _pit-pat_ sound as drops of something clear and crystal-like began dripping down her front, and it was only then that Lucy realized that she’d been crying. Sniffling hard, she crouched down; letting her tears freeze to her cheeks as she swept away the snow. When she did, she saw a Tengwar inscription etched into the marble headstone. Tommy's name had been spelt _Tomé,_ but it was still her name and still proof of **her.** An acknowledgement of the other girl's existence.

Lucy loved it. She loved **him**. It was such a thoughtful gift that she was absolutely floored by the gesture and simultaneously aching for human contact at the same time. Still sniffling, Lucy looked up, searching for the elf lord. It didn't take long for her to find him, sitting on the marble bench next to the wall; his elbows braced on his knees as he watched her with a distant expression. His gem-bright eyes stood out in stark contrast to his porcelain-pale skin, his sharply pointed ears poking through the fall of his hair.

Lucy went to him, tears on her cheeks and her heavy skirt dragging through the snow. It was terribly cold, but she didn't feel it. Her senses were numb. When she neared him, Lucy reached out. The elf lord leaned back and opened his arms to receive her, drawing her into a hug.

"Thank you." Lucy whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Glorfindel kissed her cheek, his arm going around her waist and the other cradling the back of her head as he pulled her onto his lap. Lucy buried her face in his hair, her legs straddling either side of his hips and her skirts riding up around her ankles, but she didn't care. She never felt the cold when she was with him. " **Thank you**."

"The garden is yours." Glorfindel said, his lips pressed to her ear. His words were slightly hesitant, and a moment later Lucy knew why. He hated saying anything negative around her. "If… if the city is attacked, I want you to hide here and wait for me. Those that wish you harm will not be able to find it."

Still crying, Lucy nodded _yes_ against his shoulder. She loved him. She loved him so much she'd do anything for him, so long as he stayed with her forever. Glorfindel kissed her ear again and stroked her hair.

"Will you tell me what happened?" he asked. There was a pleading edge to his tone. Lucy knew he meant to say _yesterday, with Maeglin_ , but she shook her head and hugged him harder. She didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever. She wanted to forget.

Glorfindel didn't say anything, but his hands went to her face; cradling either side of it as he gently pulled her back so that she was looking at him directly. Lucy sniffled and rubbed at her nose, her vision blurry with tears. The elf lord watched her with an expression that she couldn't quite place, but when he stared at her, it made her feel like she was the only person in the world. The stare was endless, and full of a distinctly _elvish_ kind of pain.

"Please do not cry." he said, his voice wavering. Glorfindel’s jaw was clenched, his teeth grit. His thumb swept sideways across her cheek, drawing away the moisture, but his hands were shaking noticeably. "I cannot stand it when you are in pain, and I… I **feel** it. My kind, we… we cannot, our fëar –"

"M'sorry." Lucy mumbled, and she really was. "I'm sorry, I can't help it. I ache." She gripped her abdomen, her fingers curling in the fabric of her dress to show him. "I ache **here**."

The elf lord shuddered, his eyes growing dark as he cradled her head. As if in a dream, Lucy felt him lean forward. She felt him gently kiss her forehead, her eyes, her nose and her jaw. Lucy wanted to kiss his lips, but didn't because it felt too sacred. He was too sacred, only she'd barely imagined the thought and opened her mouth to release a sigh before Glorfindel’s lips **were** on hers, and they were kissing.

He tasted like sugar. Like peaches and pastries and all those sweet foods he absolutely adored. Lucy gasped in surprise, and when she did his tongue slid inwards, slick and intrusive. His lips were soft and warm against hers. Lucy moaned, her hands twitching against his front. Because him. Everything about him she absolutely adored, and she liked this _kissing_ thing; loved the way his hand cradled her head, gentle but feverish; loved the way he wrapped his tongue around hers and gently tugged on her bottom lip with a disconcerting amount of ease, as if they'd done this act countless times before.

When she didn't push him away Glorfindel groaned, his fingers threading through her hair. Lucy sighed, her breasts flattening against his front as she pressed herself to his chest. She didn't know why they were kissing, and didn't really care, but Glorfindel meant everything to her, and he'd given her Tommy back. Tommy, whose bones were buried beneath the white roots of a tree in some secret elvish garden, like a betrothal gift to the dead. All they were missing were the rings.

Glorfindel's lips left hers to briefly press themselves along her jaw. There was a growing hardness between the ellon's legs, pushing against the junction between Lucy’s thighs. Lucy could feel it through the fabric of her dress, large and insistent; she could feel the heat pooling in her belly, the flush spreading along her skin as she imagined that hardness inside her. Still she remained pliant in the elf lord's grasp, unsure of what to do with her body but desperate to be near him. _Elf flesh is sweet. Taste it_ , the voices said, and Lucy did. She loved him. She loved him so much. Glorfindel was the one who took care of her and kept her safe, and Lucy needed him so badly that she was willing to do anything to have him with her. She'd be good for him. She'd be perfect.

"Lucy." Glorfindel gasped against her skin, his hand gripping her rear to hold her in place; the other slid down to palm her lower back. "Lucy, I love you so much. Being parted from you was torture."

Lucy moaned, her arms reaching up to wrap around his neck.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Glorfindel asked in-between kisses, his hands holding her steady as he ground the hardness against her. Lucy shuddered at the contact. "Can you tell me how he… how he hurt… can you…" the ellon let out a breathy gasp. "Please, I won't be mad. I swear it." Then, "Nimeleth, please do not cry. I will keep you safe, I promise." 

It was only then that Lucy realized that her cheeks were wet. She didn't want to talk about what had happened with Maeglin; was abstractly terrified of the notion, because even though he'd promised he wouldn't leave, Lucy knew Glorfindel all too well and she knew he’d be upset and would go hunting for the other elf lord regardless. She couldn't stand the thought of further isolation; she’d let Glorfindel keep her locked in the gilded cage forever, if only he wouldn't abandon her. But the ache. The **aching**. The hollowness in her belly was so strong that Lucy couldn't stop rocking against him, and Glorfindel couldn't seem to stop either. His lips were on her throat, sucking on a pulse point, and in an instant Lucy felt her thirst rise like a tsunami. His blood. She needed to feed. She needed him inside her. She'd been starving for months and she was finally reaching the end of her tether. The world was dyed red with her hunger. 

"Laurëfindil." she gasped in warning, afraid of hurting him. When he heard his name, Lucy felt the hardness _twitch_ ; she felt the elf lord groan against her throat as his kisses became more desperate. "Laurëfindil, please –"

"Tell me." he pleaded against her jaw, the hand at her back holding her steady. "Tell me, please. I will do anything for you. Please Lucy, Nimeleth – "

Lucy whimpered and tried to breathe through her hunger, looking anywhere but him. Always, she'd been too weak and too scared to try it, but he was right there, and the need to feed was undeniable. She could just reach out and end the torment, but she didn't want to hurt him. Was terrified of hurting him, and even more scared of Glorfindel discovering that she was _wrong_.

"Laurëfindil –"

"Lucy, please –"

And then his neck was right there in front of her, just for a moment. His neck and left shoulder, visible ever so briefly beneath the golden fall of his hair. Without thinking it through, Lucy leaned forward and bit him, but her teeth were dull and her jaw was weak. Despite the smooth texture and unblemished surface, Glorfindel's skin was tough as leather and decidedly not human. She couldn't break through it.

The elf lord gasped in surprise and quickly pushed her back, his other hand clapping over the spot where she'd bit him. His expression was one of lust-filled befuddlement; his eyes dark, his pupils fluctuating as he tried in vain to stumble back towards some sort of awareness.

"Nimeleth?" Glorfindel asked, his tone a mixture of concern and confusion. Lucy began to sob. She sat there, straddling his lap, her hands shaking as she swayed with the hunger. The snow drifted down around them. "Lucy?" Glorfindel exclaimed when she didn't stop crying. "Lucy, what is wrong?!"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, and she'd done it now. She'd ruined everything. Once the elves knew the truth, they would kill her for sure. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just so hungry, I'm sorry, please don't kill me, I didn't mean it –"

"Shh," Glorfindel soothed. His hands went up, cradling her face; stroking her hair and wiping away her tears, but they continued to fall. "Lucy, you are safe. I just… I cannot… please tell me –"

Lucy told him, all in a rush. Told him in fragmented, incoherent babbling about the hunger that had plagued her since the baramog bit her, interspersed with pleas for her life and _please don't kill me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it I'm just so hungry_. _Sauron talks in my head sometimes, but never when you're there_.

And Glorfindel listened. He listened with an expression that quickly morphed into horror, his pupils shrinking and the black receding to be replaced by blue. His skin paled to the same shade as the snow.

"I ache." Lucy sobbed, so distraught that she could barely speak. She'd been holding the truth back for so long that everything hurt. Her hand went to her middle, fingers curling into her dress; her shoulders shook. "Laurëfindil, it feels so **hollow**. I lost them, I lost them, I'm so hungry, I'm sorry, I lost them –" 

Glorfindel reached down, his hand going to his waist quicker than Lucy could follow. In an instant he was unsheathing his dirk. Lucy didn't realize he had the blade in hand until she saw the glint of steel, and then she was begging and incoherent and struggling to get away from him, because he was going to kill her. She knew he was going to kill her. Elves hated things that were tainted, and Glorfindel was going to bleed her out like a stuck pig and leave her there to rot. 

The elf lord kept his grip on her, shushing her gently. Lucy shook and sobbed. 

"No, nononono, please –"

"Shh, my love, shh, I won't hurt you." he soothed, but Lucy was insensible with terror. Only a moment later the knife was at **Glorfindel's** neck, and he was pressing down. Lucy saw red. So much red. It was all she could process for a moment as crimson spilled from the ellon’s pristine white neck and stained the lapels of his cloak. Glorfindel dropped the knife, holding out his hands in a non-threatening manner while the blood dripped in rivulets down his front. There was nothing but empathy in his expression: nothing but adoration and love.

"Is this what you need?" he asked, his voice raspy from the strain. His skin was rapidly losing its color, and he was shaking. He'd cut deep. Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, but the elf lord shushed her and drew her into his embrace. His movements were full of devotion as he cradled the back of her head and brought her lips to the wound.

And oh, the blood. The blood, and the flesh. It tasted so sweet, just like his lips, and Lucy had been so famished for so long that the minute she tasted him she couldn't get enough. She buried her face against his throat, her little fingers tangling in his hair as she wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him like a leech. Lucy drank and she drank, gorging herself on everything Glorfindel. She'd been starving for centuries.

The ellon gasped as he held her to him, his other hand gripping her waist. He was still rock hard beneath her. Lucy ground herself against him as she drank, because she wanted to show him how thankful she was. How willing she was to give the elf lord everything. She was his.

"Shh," Glorfindel said. The ellon's head tilted back, his head _thunking_ dully against the vine-covered wall. "It is… _ah_. It is all right. Do not be afraid. I will keep you safe. No one has to know but… _ah_ , but us. It will be our secret." Lucy kept drinking, overcome with need. She remained docile as the ellon's hand slid beneath her skirt; uncaring of the way he blindly searched for her naked flesh, his fingers gripping her thigh.

"Lucy, my Lucy." he panted. He arched against her, and Lucy let him hold her to the bulge between his legs as he jerked his hips. His blood tasted so sweet. "My Lucy, I won't let them take you from me. I promise. You will stay with me forever. Only me. I will… I will keep you safe. I cannot wait for the children."

Amongst the snow and the bones of the dead, Lucy continued to feed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	31. The Secrets We Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter revised June 9, 2016

Glorfindel let her drink until she could drink no more, and even then Lucy doubted that he would’ve stopped her. He made no move to remove her from his neck, and in the end she had to make a purposeful effort to halt her feeding, still conscious of the fact that he was losing blood and she was probably hurting him.

Lucy didn’t want to hurt him, but when she fed all the pain went away; the hollowness in her belly fading to a dull ache instead of outright agony. Lucy had never liked sweet things, but she loved the sweetness of _him_. As she drank, she felt her limbs go tingly and her senses heighten; she felt a fluttering sensation between her legs and the hardening of her nipples against his front. Glorfindel was growing hard too, and Lucy could feel him, pressing up against the junction between her thighs. Her shackles were warm around her wrist, and as she clung to him she felt a different sort of hunger spring to life.

She wanted him. She wanted the elf lord so badly she couldn’t think of anything else. Lucy needed to fill herself in a way that was utterly instinctual and completely alien, and the more she drank, the stronger the sensation grew. Glorfindel wanted to fill her too, and she knew it now. He wanted a baby. Lucy could tell it by the taste of his blood. The knowledge of this made her feel hot and cold all over.

Lucy heard the elf lord gasp as she bit deeper; she felt the warmth of his blood spill past her lips and seep down the front of her dress. Glorfindel’s hands were on her rear, holding her in place, but his grip was weak. Lucy obliged him by pressing herself closer and rubbing against him as she continued to feed. The ellon’s hips jerked towards hers in an involuntary manner. A second later he reached between them to tug his tunic open, before clumsily pushing her cloak aside. Lucy remained docile as he slid his fingers beneath the rim of her collar to jerk her dress down, exposing her breasts to the fresh air.

“Nimeleth.” the ellon sighed, immediately palming one of the heavy globes. A moment later his hand left her breast to slide beneath her arm and grip her bare back, pulling her forward so he could press her exposed chest to his. The heat of him was exquisite, and Glorfindel let out a sob of relief at the skin-on-skin contact. Lucy moaned in contentment and continued to gorge.

“Nimeleth, my Nimeleth. I missed you,” he said as he held her close. “I am so sorry. I will make things right.” Lucy simply let out another small _hmm_ of acknowledgement. Around her wrist, the shackles burned.

Lucy loved the feel of his hands. She loved the way that Glorfindel held her; how he seemed to instinctively know all the dips and grooves along her back. When the ellon touched her, Lucy felt safe; he touched her as if she was sacred, and she felt like she was coming _home_. Slowly the ellon’s grip began to slacken, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. Lucy’s haze of lust faded away just enough to make room for concern. There was a tugging sensation in her chest, a need to be near the elf lord in a way that had nothing to do with her hunger and everything to do with a hysterical desire to keep him safe. She had to stop feeding, but she wanted him inside her. Her hunger for him was insatiable.

Fighting against the urge to feed, Lucy slowly drew back, feeling lightheaded from lust and finding it almost impossible to think past the way that their hips fit together. Above them the snow continued to fall. When she saw Glorfindel’s neck – the long wound he’d opened with his own blade, and how he pressed a trembling hand to it to stem the flow of blood – Lucy felt a dull sort of horror at what she’d done, followed by abject shame. The elf lord looked sick, his front stained with red and his jewel-toned eyes dull, but she still wanted him. She wanted to **use** him, to make a baby. The thought was horrifying and ugly. It wasn’t **hers**.

Glorfindel stared at her in a hazy sort of way, swaying slightly where he sat as he kept his left hand to his neck. He was still hard beneath her, and his eyes looked black. _Lucy,_ his blood said to her. _Lucy, Lucy, Lucy._ She was all he’d thought about for centuries. He needed her, and she responded.

“Do you need any more?” he asked hoarsely. Lucy sniffled and shook her head. She rubbed at her eyes to get rid of an itching sensation, even as she fantasized about flesh upon flesh; the feel of him moving inside her as she drank from his neck. He’d let her, she knew. Even as he sat there and shuddered from the blood loss, Lucy could smell the need coming off him, and knew it would be so easy to simply lift her skirts and let him slip inside. Glorfindel watched the movement of her breasts, hanging heavy and free from the fabric. Lucy remained still as the ellon absently reached out and palmed the weight of one; seemingly entranced by the way his blood was smeared across it. Her thirst spiked at the contact, and without thinking Lucy opened her legs wider for better access, pressing herself to him as she rolled her hips against his and ran her hands along his chest.

The elf lord sucked in a sharp, rasping breath and let go of her breast almost immediately, leaning backwards on the bench and looking everywhere but her in a panic. Lucy curled into his neck and pressed herself flush against him; murmuring wordless nothings as she kissed his throat and jaw. She loved him. She wanted him, and she wanted his children. She knew that he wanted her, too.

“No.” she heard him murmur. Lucy felt Glorfindel try to push her away, but like the time before, his efforts were pathetically half-hearted. _Lucy_ , his blood sang to her. _Lucy, I need Lucy_. He’d needed her for ages. “No, please, we must stop –”

“But you want me.” Lucy said as she pressed another kiss to his throat. She felt him swallow; felt him arch his hips against hers, even as he tried to shuffle back further on the bench to put some room between them.

“Yes.” Glorfindel admitted raggedly. “Yes, more than anything. Please, I do not… it is not the same for me. If we do this, I will, I will – I cannot **stop** –”

Lucy ignored his protestations. She could feel it on him, now: the near mindless compulsion to touch her. She could taste it on his skin. With a detached sort of determination, Lucy reached down and grabbed his hands, bringing them up and pressing them to her breasts until he cupped them. She ran her own bloody palms along either side of his neck. The elf lord shuddered and leaned forward. He kissed her back, weak but fervent as he let go of her breasts and frantically yanked down her dress. Lucy felt so hot the snow was a distant memory, her fingers scrabbling at the ties on his tunic as she tried to get them open.

“We must stop.” Glorfindel said in between breathless kisses, even as he pulled her dress to her navel and freed one of her arms from her sleeves. He was shivering from the blood loss, and his skin felt clammy, but the little voice of reason at the back of Lucy’s mind was fading away. The hardness between his legs felt wonderful.

“We must – please. You are too small, and I cannot lose you… the Eldar do not… the children.” He wasn’t making any sense, but Lucy understood the last part in a strange, abstract sort of way. Not thinking it through, she grabbed his hand, guiding it down her front and beneath her dress to press his palm to her womb. There. He was supposed to be **there**. The ellon gasped into her mouth, his whole body shuddering as his fingers spread. Automatically, he cradled the soft flesh.

Then there was pain. Sharp, stabbing pain, and Lucy whimpered. She fell away from the kiss and immediately went limp in Glorfindel’s arms. Despair filled her: a despair so deep that she wondered if it was actually hers. Then Lucy wasn’t thinking about Glorfindel’s blood or the taste of him. She was thinking about the children, and how they were missing; how they’d be full grown by now, but she’d been taken from him before they were born. The twins were gone as if they’d never existed, and it was absolute agony to see Nimeleth without them. The sense of _hollowness_ was overwhelming.

_Ai Illúvatar, it **hurts**._

“It hurts.” Lucy said, reflexively clasping her hands to her belly and curling in on herself. Her forehead pressed to Glorfindel’s shoulder as she let out a series of gasps. The agony of the emptiness was alien and encompassing, and it didn’t feel like hers.

Glorfindel’s expression twisted with distress. He removed his hand so quickly that Lucy toppled to the side with the loss of balance.

“Nimeleth.” he exclaimed, catching her before she could fall; he cradled her close, burying his face in her hair as he cupped the back of her head. “Lucy, I am so sorry. Sometimes I forget, and I do not… I cannot…” There was something brittle about Glorfindel’s movements, as if he was one step away from losing control and two steps from breaking. His neck was bleeding again. His shoulders were shaking. “Lucy, please forgive me. Sometimes I forget myself, and I… I am so sorry. I did not mean to. I will try to be better from now on, I promise.”

Lucy knew that he would, but in the moment it didn’t help her. Her hunger was satiated and the lust was gone, but the sensation of hollowness was stark. Lucy leaned against him and shook with tremors, her fingers curled in his tunic as Glorfindel stroked her back. Baby. She needed her children, and she needed them now. Slowly, ever so slowly, the agony began to wear off, but she didn’t forget them.

“Please don’t leave me.” Lucy said, sniffling against his shoulder. She couldn’t stand the loneliness, especially when the pain was this bad. The elf lord turned his head and pressed a fervent kiss to the shell of her ear, and Lucy shuddered. “Never.” Glorfindel swore. “ **Never**.”

Lucy believed him.

Eventually the shaking stopped and the pain went away, and when it did the elf lord decided it was time for them to return. The ellon pulled back so he could move his arms freely, his golden hair tumbling between them as he began to tug Lucy’s dress into place. He was staring at her breasts again, his full lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Lucy got the sense that he wanted to reach out and touch them, but he made no move towards her, swallowing hard and eventually lowering his gaze.

Wanting to help – and beginning to shiver from the cold – Lucy reached out and gripped the front of his blood-splattered tunic, trying to tie it closed. Glorfindel let her fiddle with the fabric without complaint, resting his forehead against hers. The wound on his neck was no longer bleeding, but it still looked raw and open, and he seemed noticeably weaker. 

“Are you okay?” Lucy asked anxiously. Now that the haze of lust was gone, she couldn’t bear the thought that she’d done permanent damage. Glorfindel nodded, but he didn’t look it. He watched her movements from beneath lowered eyelashes; tracking the way her fingers struggled with the ties, but he made no move to help her.

“I love your hands,” he mumbled. Lucy blinked in confusion. “They are so small,” the ellon continued in a lilting, faraway tone. “Like bird wings; your fingers are fragile, and the skin is soft.” Lucy swallowed hard, her fingers stilling against his front as she watched him get lost in memory.

“Whenever you stayed behind, you would dress me,” he continued, the knuckles on his right hand running up and down her arm in a gentle motion. “You would reach out and help me put on my robes. You tied my tunic from left to right, and afterwards you would smooth your hands across the fabric. _Be careful_ , you would tell me, and I promised. You needed me to come back to help you.”

Sure enough when Lucy looked down she was tying his tunic from left to right. When she smoothed her hands across the fabric without thinking, she blinked in realization and was struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Glorfindel watched the motion of her hands, and Lucy watched nothing in particular. The snow continued to fall.

“Lucy.” the elf lord said at last. His voice was hoarse with pain. “Do you love me?”

Lucy sniffled with the cold and nodded fiercely, her forehead rubbing against his as he did so. “Yes.” she said. “More than anything.” She wasn’t sure if that was how she was supposed to articulate herself, but it was the truth.

The elf lord reached forward, cupping the side of her face like she was made of glass. His grip was weak but ever-mindful of her bruises from Maeglin, his lips warm as he pressed a tremulous kiss to the corner of hers. Very slowly Glorfindel gathered her to him and tried to stand. He’d barely taken two steps before he stumbled, his legs wobbling as they buckled and he tilted to the side. Lucy cried out in alarm as he toppled, sending the two of them sprawling into the snow.

“Glorfindel!” she exclaimed, clutching at him as she tried to keep the ellon partially upright. He swayed where he sat. The elf lord’s eyes were wide, his skin pale but his cheeks flushed. Lucy ran her hands up his front, searching for his wound beneath the wild mass of his hair to try to inspect it. She knew that was the problem, and she was the one who had started it. She’d done this to him – she’d hurt him – and she’d promised not to. 

Before she could touch the gash, Glorfindel clamped his hand over his neck and pushed her away with the other as he stared in the general direction of her lap.

“I am fine,” he slurred in Quenya. Lucy was so panicked by his sudden weakness that she forgot to pretend that she couldn’t understand. The elf lord gripped her hand in his, his long fingers curling weakly around hers. “I am well.” the ellon insisted gently. “I just… I am just… it is… I need a moment. Wait for me, please.” He’d bled too much.

Lucy waited without question; the idea that she would leave him was laughable. She clapped a free hand over her mouth to muffle an involuntary cry, her thin fingers tightly gripping his in comfort. She could still taste him on her tongue; she could taste the sweetness that had flooded her throat, along with the utter relief that she’d felt when her hunger was finally satiated.

“I’m sorry.” Lucy mumbled into her hand, her abdomen clenching with spasms as she remembered the sensation that had come soon afterwards: the hollow feeling that had roared back to life with a vengeance, and then dissipated. The elf lord blinked slowly. His hand traveled farther up her arm, feeling blindly for her bicep. His movements were so clumsy that Lucy wondered if he was having problems seeing. The notion was horrifying. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I was just so hungry –”

“Move closer.” Glorfindel murmured, speaking over her protests. He swallowed hard, his eyes closing and his brows pinching with pain. As he spoke, the pawing at her arm became more insistent. “I need… I need to touch you. Please.”

Lucy didn’t understand what he was going on about, but she moved forward immediately. Wrapping her arms around his broad back, Lucy curled her fingers into the thick fabric of his tunic as she clung to him and shook. The elf lord was so weak that he had to lean against her, his head resting atop her crown. He smelt of blood and snow, and he smelt of her. Lucy’s senses felt amplified, but she couldn’t tell if it was because of the panic or something else. Above them, the snow continued to fall softly through the branches, drifting down in trickles of white.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“No.” the elf lord said after a delayed second, almost as if he hadn’t realized she was speaking. “No, it is not that.” There was a rattling sound in his chest. The ellon rubbed at his front directly over his heart, as if he were having problems breathing. A moment later he reached down and tugged at the golden belt slung low over his hips, as if the position of it were uncomfortable. Lucy felt a tugging sensation in her own chest; a queer sort of pain in the spot that mirrored Glorfindel’s. The elf lord was fidgeting again, as he was wont to do when he was distressed, but it was a brittle, weak sort of thing. “It hurts.” he finally explained. His voice cracked as he did so. “It hurts when you are not near. I tried to tell you… I tried, but I didn’t…”

Lucy still didn’t know what he was going on about, or what he meant, but she didn’t care. She pressed herself to him, her breasts flattening against his front as she burrowed into him for warmth. Eventually Glorfindel seemed to regain his strength. He managed to stand, but only barely.

This time, Lucy helped him walk instead of letting him carry her.

Very shakily, the two of them moved out of the secret garden and down the vine-covered tunnel towards the keep. The ellon blinked sluggishly as they stumbled forward, his arm draped across her shoulders and his other hand gripping hers. More than once he almost fell, and although his steps got steadier towards the end, Lucy was still terrified that he was going to faint.

When they reached the end of the tunnel, Glorfindel stopped. Lucy could feel the tremors running along his back and through the arm he had thrown across her shoulder. Looking up, Lucy eyed his wound. The gash was long, and they needed to go back, but there was blood. So much blood drying along the front of his tunic and all the way down the front of Lucy’s dress. There was too much for them to hide it, and when they went inside there would be questions. Lucy was terrified of the questions; while Glorfindel was willing to let her live, she knew the others would be less forgiving.

But the wound. The **wound**. Glorfindel looked so tired and spent. Oh god, what if her bite had been poisonous?

Standing on her tiptoes, Lucy reached up, but before she could touch it Glorfindel was leaning down and picking her up, cradling her to his chest like a doll. He staggered as he did so.

“You don’t have to carry me.” Lucy pleaded, and she really meant it; wanted him to understand that she was strong enough to walk for once, but knew he wasn’t all there in the head.

“I will manage.” Glorfindel mumbled. He began walking again. “I just… I just need to rest.”

“But the blood.” Lucy insisted. “Aeloth will –” 

She felt Glorfindel press his lips to her forehead; she felt him take a staggering step forward, and hold her closer. “She will not know.” he said. “They will not see it.” There was a pause, and his breathing hitched. “You must… you must not say anything to anyone about this. It must be our secret. You must… you must stay with me. Do you understand?”

Lucy nodded instantly. The threat of death was very real, even though he didn’t say so out loud. “I promise.” she said. Glorfindel nodded sluggishly and kept walking. Lucy tried to make herself as small as possible so her weight wouldn’t be a burden. 

As soon as they emerged from the hidden garden, they were hit with the full force of the storm. The snow was carving out wind-worn drifts in-between the trees where it landed, and all Lucy could see was whiteness. Directly in front of them were the faint outline of the silvered trees that dotted Glorfindel’s courtyard, but that was it. In the open, the weather was frigid. Immediately Lucy sucked in a strong breath and huddled inwards, hiding her face against Glorfindel’s hair. She felt him adjust her in his arms, rearranging his cloak so she was covered by it. He then pulled his own hood up, ducking his head against the wind as he moved forward. Glorfindel’s steps were faltering and jerky. Pressed as she was to his chest, Lucy could clearly hear the rattling sound coming from his lungs. She couldn’t see much, cocooned as she was beneath his cloak and his hair, but every now and then she spied flashes of nearby structures; a pillar nearly buried by the snow, along with a glimpse of the outer wall of the estate. Something akin to an internal map told Lucy that they were heading in the wrong direction, but for a while she simply thought that she was disoriented.

Then Glorfindel stopped near the base of the main tower, far away from any door. In front of them was a wall covered with vines. The elf lord put her down ever so briefly, before he picked her up again and re-positioned her against his chest. He placed one hand to her back, the other cradling her rear.

“Put your legs around my waist,” he whispered against her ear. Lucy did so, her thighs squeezing. The hand on her rear spasmed when she clenched, and Glorfindel let out a soft gasp. Lucy was about to ask him where they were going, but the ellon was already letting go and reaching for the vines, quickly clambering upwards. Even though Glorfindel was weak, he moved with an agility that was utterly unnerving; as if scaling the side of a thirteen-story tower was as natural to him as waking up in bed. The wind was driving, and off the ground away from any shelter it was too much to bear. Lucy gasped at the cold, clinging to the elf lord in shock, but Glorfindel moved so quickly he was already at a fifth story window. A moment later he pulled himself inwards. The elf lord staggered hard as he landed, letting out a pained gasp as he sunk to his knees.

Conscious of the fact that she was throwing him off balance, Lucy loosened her grip and began to disentangle herself. She didn’t get far before Glorfindel grasped her bicep to stop her from moving any farther, his expression one of panic.

“Shh,” he whispered, and he looked so tired. His eyes were murky, like clouded glass. “I must… you must stay with me. Stay still. Do not speak until I tell you to.” Lucy obeyed his word to the letter, but she still helped him get up. He was too tired to carry her, and the elf lord finally seemed ready to acknowledge it.

Like a limping shadow Glorfindel slipped from the room, his golden hair tumbling between them as it dangled just above the floor. He made no sound as he walked, but Lucy did. As they turned a corner, they ran into one of Glorfindel’s servants. Lucy felt her heart clench, her steps stuttering in shock at the intrusion, but the elleth didn’t notice them in the slightest. As they passed she kept on walking, staring straight ahead.

It was almost as if there was a veil over their forms, hiding the two of them from other’s senses. When they arrived at his room, Glorfindel reached out and opened the door. Lucy helped him inside. The ellon’s chamber appeared as it always had; his bed in the center with the headboard pressed against the wall, a half-finished bottle of wine on his desk and the windows boarded up for the winter. There was a mournful draft whistling through the room, and the lamps were dimmed. Almost immediately the elf lord’s energy deflated. His labored breathing became much more evident, his whole body shaking with the strain of standing.

Lucy barely managed to help Glorfindel over to the bed before he collapsed, and once there he sunk to the covers in a boneless heap, utterly exhausted and pale as ever. Lucy quickly crawled up onto the bed beside him and shuffled closer, draping herself over him in a rough approximation of a hug.

“Laurëfindil?” she said, brushing his hair away to inspect his neck, but discovered the wound was on the other side of it, hidden by the covers. Glorfindel didn’t lift his head as she ran her fingers through his golden locks, remaining utterly docile beneath her. “Laurëfindil, what’s wrong? Is it your neck? I’m sorry, I didn’t know –”

The elf lord swallowed visibly, his eyes closed and his lips pressed together ever so briefly as he whet them. His skin was hot and clammy, his cheeks flushed. If she didn’t know better, Lucy would’ve thought he had a fever, but Glorfindel was an elf. Elves didn’t get fevers, Tommy had said, and Tommy always told the truth. It **had** to be true.

Lucy bit her tongue against the onslaught of memories, struggling to reorient herself against a desperate need to make Glorfindel feel better. The outside world was fading away, her concerns dwindling down to just him and her. Something had changed when she’d drunk his blood, and Lucy found it impossible to separate where she ended and the elf lord began. Nothing else mattered. Not even the war.

“Laurëfindil, please –” she began. Glorfindel finally made a soft sound of confirmation, his face partially buried by the blankets. He was too tired to even move his head an inch.

“I will be well.” he assured her, his voice faint. “I just need to rest.” He was in pain, and Lucy was loath to move him, but there was blood everywhere. They had to hide it.

“What about the blood?” she asked as she stroked his hair, pressing herself to his back. It was hard to think beyond the moment, but she knew she was supposed to meet Aeloth. The elleth was already suspicious, and would come looking for her when they didn’t arrive.

“No one will enter without my permission.” the elf lord mumbled, his eyes still closed. “I set an enchantment.” Already he was beginning to fall into a deep, much-needed sleep, his breaths growing shallow and his hands limp atop the covers. “I will clean it up afterwards. I promise.”

Lucy didn’t press him on the subject.

Soon the ellon was fast asleep. Every now and then his fingers would twitch, and once or twice he moaned her name, but otherwise he remained silent. Lucy just lay there, her head resting atop his back as she listened to the sounds of his labored breathing and came down from the last dregs of her blood-fueled high. Eventually she was lulled into sleep as well, listening to the erratic beating of Glorfindel’s heart. It wasn’t long before Lucy began to dream; fever dreams, brought on by lust and love and the taste of his blood. The dreams were lucid, but she was shapeless, inhabiting another’s body and looking out through an alien pair of eyes. 

It was warm in her dream. So very warm, but not actually hot; a pleasant sort of heat that cocooned her bones and made her feel lazy. A soft breeze wound its way through a valley gorge, thick with golden grass and bright red flowers. Above her, the sky was dark, littered with innumerable stars.

Down her dream-host went; down and down, walking with quick strides along a winding stone staircase that had been cut out of the earth, all rough-hewn and jagged. The path was overgrown with grass, and on either side golden leafed trees twined in twos, their white boughs bent and twisted as their gnarled roots braided together. Lucy recognized the stars overhead from her _other_ dreams; she recognized how alien they appeared, and how strange this world was, but her host wasn’t concerned with it. He didn’t pay attention to the way the breeze tangled his heavy hair; how the bracelets around his left wrist made a jangling sound as he quickly strode down the steps, and didn’t really think about how the others could probably hear him.

Lucy could feel her host’s anxiety as she floated along his bloodstream. There was the _pit-pat_ of a nervous heartbeat, and a sick feeling in the dream-host’s stomach at the thought of not finding her there. _I won’t leave you,_ she’d said, _I promise_. But he was old enough now to know that she couldn’t control where she went, or **when**. On the air, there was the faint tinkling of wind chimes; the eerie whistle of the breeze as it wound its way along the gorge and up onto the plains above.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found her.

In her dreams, Lucy saw herself. She saw a small, delicate-looking woman resting atop a quilted settee, her eyes closed and her knees propped up by pillows, her small feet poking out past the edge of her lavender dress. The woman was heavily pregnant, her hands running up and down her bloated sides. Her belly was too big for her frame, her swollen middle alarmingly distended. Her milk-heavy breasts were clearly visible beneath a cocoon of gauzy fabric, all soft and pale and engorged.

Lucy felt the host’s heart stop, then skip a beat; felt a twisting sensation deep in his chest instantly dissipate to be replaced by near-hysterical relief. Nimeleth was still there, and she was safe. She hadn’t left him.

_I won’t leave you,_ she’d told him again and again, but his fear was a constant these days; a festering thing that dwelt beneath his skin and made it hard to think. Sometimes he wondered things. Awful things that kept him awake for weeks on end, because what if he wasn’t careful, and someone found her? What if Nimeleth didn’t love him the same way he loved her? But there was a child this time. There were _children_ , and she needed his help for even the most simple of tasks. It was such a relief to be needed by her: to have some sort of link of permanence between them.

As the host approached, Lucy watched as Dream-Lucy opened her eyes. The tiny woman turned her head towards the sound of his jangling bracelets and smiled softly, reaching out with a milk-white hand. The other remained on her giant womb.

“Laurëfindil.” she said. The name was intimately familiar, but Lucy couldn’t remember why. She was losing herself in her dream-host’s memories, and as the woman spoke she was hit by a sense of need so strong she was almost drowned by it; a near-mindless desire to pick her up and hold her close and keep her safe, because Nimeleth was home and Nimeleth was good and she’d given him everything. He wanted to take care of her forever. He loved her so much it hurt.

“Laurëfindil, I missed you.” Dream-Lucy sighed.

There was an airy quality to the woman’s voice that made her host think she was having trouble breathing; he knew it was the size of the children, and how the weight of them pressed down on her lungs. _It wasn’t this bad the first time_ , she’d told him when she wasn’t quite so big, somewhat disgruntledly. _Maybe it’s because there’s two._

He never asked her about the first time, or the other children; he never questioned Nimeleth about where she came from or what had happened to her in the ether. He’d tried once, but when he did she cried; she’d wrung her hands and clutched at his tunic, begging him to stay safe. _Don’t do anything foolish. Please don’t do it_ , Nimeleth would say, and he’d always agree, because Nimeleth was life and Nimeleth **gave** life and the world was a drought without her. Nothing else mattered.

Lucy felt her host reach out. She saw a hand that was not her own brush silken hair away from her face, gently cradling her head. The host’s hand was large but slender, porcelain pale with golden bracelets wrapped around an elegant wrist. Dream-Lucy hummed at the contact, gripping his fingers. Her host loved the woman’s hands; he loved how they reminded him of bird wings, slender and breakable. When he was a child he’d thought her tall, but he knew better now. He knew that Nimeleth was small and soft and fragile.

_You’re too anxious,_ she’d told him more than once as she’d stroked his back. _You need to breathe._ But it felt nice to be wanted. Nice to be needed. Nimeleth had never stayed in one place for so long before, but she stayed with him now, and he was positive it was because of the children. The pain went away when she was with him, and he needed that. He’d tried to explain it to her once, but Nimeleth wasn’t Eldar. Nimeleth was _Other_ , and she felt other things.

“Are you in pain?” someone asked. It took Lucy a moment to realize it was her host who was speaking. As if in a trance, she watched as Dream-Lucy shook her head, her dark hair rustling softly around her shoulders. Her eyelids were heavy with exhaustion.

“No.” the woman said, resting a hand atop her belly beneath the shelf of her breasts. “Just tired, and heavy. I wish I could walk.”

A sensation of guilt crept over him then, because Nimeleth was frail and so very helpless, but when she was swollen with child she couldn’t return to the ether. She’d told him she wouldn’t, but he knew she still missed it. Had known she was drawn to it, and wanted to return, but then she’d grown so large she couldn’t even leave the grotto and he’d felt relief for their predicament. Her host didn’t say anything, though, because he knew she missed walking; he knew he was being horribly greedy and shouldn’t wish for something so selfish, but he was so lonely and lost without her. Children were a gift, and they kept her with him. He loved being with Nimeleth. He wanted to make her happy **here**.

The host reached down then, putting a hand to Dream-Lucy’s belly; his palm flat and fingers spread as he cupped her swollen flesh to feel the twins turning beneath. He hoped their sons looked like her. _They won’t look like me,_ she’d told him once with a frown to her face, her small hands massaging her burgeoning middle. _They never look like me. My blood’s not strong enough._ Still, he hoped for it. Prayed that they had her eyes and her ears and her hair, because Nimeleth was beautiful.

A small foot pressed up against his hand, stretching the skin. Beneath him the woman gasped and squirmed with discomfort, her hands sliding against the bed as she clumsily tried to push herself onto her elbows. Keeping one hand on Dream-Lucy’s abdomen, the host moved his other hand to her hair; making soothing sounds of comfort as he helped her settle back onto the pillows. Nimeleth was far too fragile to be moving so much. She needed to rest, and she wasn’t so opposed to it now. He was grateful for that.

“Have you seen Maitimo?” Dream-Lucy asked, her limbs going limp and her eyelids heavy as she lay there and let him massage her middle. At the mention of _Maitimo_ , her host felt a queer sort of anger: a sensation of hurt, but not towards Nimeleth, because Nimeleth was perfect and Nimeleth was sweet. Nimeleth was carrying **their** sons, however, and she was **his** wife, and sometimes he worried that she didn’t need him as much as he needed her. She was also inordinately focused on the sons of Fëanor. Maybe another child would fix that, he decided; he just had to ask her. He had to stop her from doing something foolish. He was scared.

“I have not seen the prince,” he told her as he massaged her belly. Lucy’s host tried not to choke on the guilt that was clogging his senses; an intense feeling of shame coupled with a near-frantic fear of the ether. He couldn’t bear it if she left him again. Not after this. “You… you do not need to concern yourself with him. He is far away from here.”

“Please, Laurëfindil.” the woman begged. Small fingers gripped the hand that cradled her face, her expression one of concern. Her host’s hysteria was rising, even stronger than before, because _Lucy, Lucy,_ he couldn’t live without _Lucy_ , and she didn’t understand that. She should have been thinking about the children – about **herself** – but she wasn’t. He didn’t want her to leave him. “Please Laurëfindil, it’s important. I have to warn him.”

Her host leaned down and pressed a tremulous kiss to Dream-Lucy’s forehead. His hand shook as he brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Not now.” he murmured, trying to keep the fear from his voice. “I will talk to him later.”

There would be no later. There would only be **here**. Nimeleth would stay in bed and they would stay hidden, and after she gave birth to their children, he’d ask her if they could have a few more. Nimeleth would say yes. She had to say yes. Lucy loved their sons and she loved him, and once the children arrived she would stop thinking about fire and ash and strange three-peaked mountains. She would settle down and become a mother, and they would be happy, living in the grotto. Everything would be perfect. Nimeleth was life, and she gave life. He couldn’t wait to hold their children.

Dream-Lucy reached over, placing her small hand atop his and holding it to her heavy belly. Her expression was one of gloom.

“What’s wrong, Laurëfindil?” Dream-Lucy asked him. “Why are you sad?” Her voice was breathy, the air wheezing past the weight pressing down on her lungs. For one single, horrifying second he thought that she knew, but she couldn’t. He was so careful not to upset her, especially now. The guilt he felt at seeing her so fragile was utterly crushing, but his fear was worse. 

“It’s alright.” she soothed. “Laurëfindil, it’s **alright**. I won’t be mad. You can tell me, I promise.”

And then, Lucy woke up.

She woke up in Glorfindel’s bed, back in her own body and swaddled by blankets; curled on her side with her dark hair undone, spilling in waves across the covers. The wind was rattling against the boarded-up windows, the lights that hung from the ceiling flickering with minute vibrations than ran through the room. The draft that wound its way across the room created a mournful howl, and Lucy shivered. As she returned to consciousness, the disconnect between her brain and her body was so strong that she had a hard time remembering who she was. There was a heavy weight draped over her waist. She reached down, seeking to massage her swollen middle in comfort. She wanted to hold her children.

When Lucy discovered nothing but flatness, the panic was instant. For a second the despair she felt at the shape of her own body was devastating, and every second that the problem persisted was a slow-building torture that she could not endure. When she gasped and trembled, the weight on her waist stirred, then drew her back towards a source of warmth. Then as if a fog had been lifted the feeling dissipated; it was still there, lurking at the back of her brain like an unpleasant memory, but it was distant enough that she could concentrate. Lucy finally remembered who she was. The dream still felt real, though; the knowledge that the children were missing was utterly tangible. Ever so slowly, Lucy rolled onto her back, rubbing at her eyes. They felt itchy. As she moved, the weight on her waist shifted again. Why Lucy looked to the side, she saw Glorfindel. He was fast asleep, his eyes closed.

Lucy had never seen an elf sleep with their eyes closed before, and for a moment the sight was wholly alarming. Glorfindel’s skin was waxen, his hair mussed. A sharply pointed ear poked through its golden fall. Without thinking it through, Lucy reached out and cupped his cheek, smoothing her thumb gently across the ridge of his cheekbone. She loved him. She really, really loved him, more than anything she had ever loved in her entire life. Lucy couldn’t imagine **not** loving him, and she could barely remember what it was like to hate him, like she had before. She’d been so foolish.

Eventually the elf lord opened his eyes. Sluggishly at first, and clearly addled from sleep. The ellon didn’t speak for several moments – he simply lay here, letting Lucy lovingly stroke his cheek – but when he did speak, his voice was reedy. His fingers curled against her waist, but there was no force behind the gesture.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. Lucy knew he meant _do you need to feed_ , but there were ears everywhere, and they had to be careful. Sniffling slightly, Lucy shook her head and rubbed at her eyes again. The itch was turning into a stinging sensation, but she said nothing because she knew it would make him worry. Glorfindel didn’t react at first, but then he blinked, his eyelids drifting up and down several times. He looked so tired and frail. _Laurëfindil,_ Lucy thought morosely, and suddenly she had to know _._

“Did you not want to marry because you already had a wife?” she asked.

Almost immediately there was an alertness to the ellon’s groggy stare. Glorfindel’s eyes were still swollen with sleep – slivers of bright blue that glowed with a faint luminescence in the dark – but there was a sheen of wariness to them. A sense of emotional exhaustion so deep that Lucy could **feel** it. She immediately regretted saying anything, but already the elf lord was answering.

“Yes.” he said slowly. His voice was hoarse with an old sort of pain. “In Valinor.”

“Did you love her?” Lucy asked before she could stop herself. She had to know.

“More than anything.” he whispered, and he looked so miserable. Glorfindel was rarely this open with her, and Lucy soaked up the honesty like a sponge. “I still do.”

“How old were you when you married?” she asked, because she knew he’d been young before he’d come to Middle-earth. The elf lord hadn’t even been a century old when he’d trekked across the Helcaraxë with his father.

“Young.” Glorfindel said, blinking slowly. His eyes were wet. “She was younger.”

“What happened to her?” Lucy pressed. There were tears in Glorfindel’s eyes now, silent tracks of moisture running down his cheeks to wet the covers. Lucy reached out and wiped them away, but they kept on falling.

Suddenly it was no longer _her,_ but _you._

“I was impatient and foolish, and I did not listen.” Glorfindel said on a shuddering breath. “You were my secret, but I did not take care. The darkness came for you.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence between them. Lucy just lay there with her hand to his cheek, blinking rapidly as she tried to process his words. Glorfindel simply stared at her through half-lidded eyes. Lucy could hear his heartbeat, beating in a distressed tempo; she could feel the misery wafting off of him, thick and inescapable as his tears. Glorfindel never talked about the dawn of the First Age, because it filled him with grief. Lucy was beginning to understand why.

Slowly she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Lucy could taste his tears on her tongue; she could feel the smoothness of his skin against her lips, and ached at the sensation of it. “My Laurëfindil.” she said, and she felt him shudder. Lucy felt the hand on her waist tighten and draw her close, but the itch in her eyes had become intolerable. Making a sound of discontent, she leaned back and rubbed at them. 

When she opened her eyes again, she blinked, then did a double take. Things were sharper somehow, and disconcertingly so. The shackles around her wrist were warm. Glorfindel’s reaction was slow, but Lucy watched as his sleepy expression melted away, his face bleaching with horror as his breath quickened.

“What?” Lucy said, instinctively curling in on herself and dreading the answer. “What is it? What happened?” He looked so scared.

“Nothing.” the elf lord croaked out. He reached out with a trembling hand, smoothing down her hair. His voice was thick with fear. “Nothing at all.”

Glorfindel was a horrible liar, and always had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839, EpitomyofShyness and LittlePorcelainDoll for beta'ing.


	32. The Tenuous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter revised June 10, 2016

Glorfindel’s first response to whatever was wrong was an obvious attempt to hide it.

“It is nothing.” he soothed as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her hair, but his hand was trembling. “It is nothing. Just… just stay there. I must fix something.”

The elf lord shakily pulled himself out of bed, shucking off his outer robes that had been stained with blood before throwing them into a pile on the floor. He grabbed a clean tunic from the trunk at the end of his bed and pulled it over his head. As he did so he collected his hair and pulled it to the side so it wouldn’t get caught in the clasps. Lucy caught a glimpse of a pale back corded in muscle that was devoid of scars; she saw biceps moving beneath luminous skin and the indents of his spine as he finally tugged his tunic down. When he pulled his hair to the side, Lucy spied the wound. It was already scabbed over, but ugly looking. He was noticeably stronger than before, but his nerves were worse. Outside, the howl of the storm continued in an even tempo.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked as she sat up, her hair mussed as she pulled the covers around herself. The elf lord blatantly ignored her. “Glorfindel, what is it?” She shuffled closer to the edge of the bed.

Lucy felt much stronger than she had before, but her balance was off. When she sat up the world spun, but it was because everything seemed so hyper-focused. She could see the minute details of Glorfindel’s covers; the individual strands of hair clinging to one of his cheeks. Lucy could hear the beating of his heart from where she sat, and just the sound of it made her want him again, even though she wasn’t hungry. It was gluttony of the worst sort, and persistent thoughts of children were slinking back into her consciousness as if they’d never left. Her mind was filling with visions of chubby, bright-eyed toddlers: with dreams of blond-haired babies clinging to her breasts as they nursed. Lucy wanted to be indispensable. She wanted to be loved _._ Being a mother would give her that, she was sure.

Glorfindel bent down and continued rooting through his trunk, pulling out a random tunic and robe. After that he reached over and grabbed a basin of water and cloth from his nearby desk, washing his face and neck before picking it up. He shakily made his way back to the bed with the basin in hand. Lucy was going to ask him what was wrong for a third time, but got distracted by the realization that she could see the **pores** along his forehead; the flecks of gold in his eyes. Everything about her vision was agonizingly sharp, but the itching sensation behind her eyelids was gone.

“Here.” Glorfindel said in a soothing manner, but his voice was trembling. So were his hands as he set down the basin on the bed. “Here, just… just stay still.”

“Glorfindel –”

“It is alright.” he soothed. Before Lucy could process what he was doing, the elf lord reached forward and undid the clasps on her dress, his long fingers fiddling with the jeweled buckles that rested on the edge of her shoulders. They came undone with a dull _snap_. “We must… we must fix it,” he mumbled. “They can’t see.”

He meant the blood. He had to mean the blood. But her vision was so **sharp**.

“Aeloth?” Lucy queried in answer to his concerns. She didn’t stop him as Glorfindel undid one clasp, then moved on to the other. The ellon didn’t look her in the eye. His response was evasive and fearful.

“Yes.” he said. He pulled her dress down so it pooled around her waist, helping to free her arms from the complicated sleeves. Lucy let him. “Yes, her too.” Glorfindel reached for the basin of water.

This time there was nothing sensual about the way that he touched her: no lingering glances or fondling of breasts. Lucy could feel his fear, so she remained still as he ran the wet cloth across her neck and shoulders, letting him wipe away any traces of blood from her fingers and hands. When he moved on to her breasts there was the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks, but otherwise he paid no attention to them. The fact that he was ignoring her nakedness when he’d been so obsessively focused on it before made her worried.

“Glorfindel,” Lucy pleaded.

“It is nothing, Nimeleth,” the elf lord said, cleaning the last bit of blood from her chest. He finally looked her in the eye and tried to smile, but the gesture failed. With a hooded gaze Lucy watched as he brought the washcloth back over to the basin to ring it out, mourning the loss of his skin. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted **comfort** , because when Glorfindel was scared, so was she. As she turned to watch the movement of his hands, Lucy caught a distorted glimpse of herself in the water.

Her eyes were black. And not black in the way that Glorfindel’s eyes went dark when he was aroused, but black as in there were no pupils or sclera or irises. It was like looking into pools of ink.

Lucy let out a horrified gasp. She scrambled backwards almost instantly, knocking over the basin of water as she fought to get away from the sight. She could deal with the hunger, and the need to drink blood, because that could be hidden, but this was her face. Her **face** , and it was changing. The water basin clattered noisily to the floor.

“Lucy, Lucy – ” Glorfindel soothed, making shushing noises as he tried to draw her back. Lucy scrambled half-naked across the covers towards the headboard. “Lucy, shh, it is alright, you are safe. Lucy –”

“My eyes.” Lucy gasped. “My **eyes**.” She felt like screaming. She felt like running and hiding and running some more, because her paleness had been a subtle thing, and the hunger had been building for months, but her eyes had changed in a matter of seconds. Glorfindel reached over and grabbed her by the ankle; shushing her frantically as he pulled her towards him, even as Lucy fought and struggled and clawed at the bed.

“My eyes,” she sobbed. “My eyes, my eyes, my eyes –”

“Shh my love.” Glorfindel said, but he sounded just as upset as her. When she was within range, the ellon gripped her arm and pulled her into his embrace, wrapping one arm around her back as he fought to control her struggling with the other. “Shh, be calm. Be calm. It is alright, I promise –”

“No.” Lucy sobbed, pushing against his chest and struggling to get away, because oh god she could see everything, and up close it was too much. She could discern the flecks of gold in his irises, the minute strands of silver in his hair. She could hear his heartbeat, beating as loudly as if it were her own, and the shackles were burning. There was ash building around her wrist. “No.” she said, struggling and kicking. “No, my eyes –”

Glorfindel shushed her again, even as he ducked a wild jab from her arm. He finally managed to pin both of her arms between them by holding her to him in a vice, his free hand gripping her head so she couldn’t thrash. Lucy began to cry, but it did nothing to blur her vision. She was hyperventilating and going into shock.

“I know.” Glorfindel said. He kissed her cheek, his thumb rubbing circles across it. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her mouth itself, before leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “I know. Breathe, my Love, just breathe.”

But Lucy couldn’t breathe. Lucy was choking. Glorfindel held her head steady, making her look him in the eye as he tried to match her breathing to his.

“Nimeleth, breathe.” he urged. Lucy hiccuped and continued to cry.

“G-Glorfindel –”

“It will be well,” he promised pressing his forehead more firmly against hers. “I promise. Look at me. Please.”

“G-G-Glorfindel –”

“Just breathe, in and out. Listen to the sound of my voice.”

And Lucy listened. She listened to the way his voice took on a musical cadence; listened through her tears as he counted in and out and looked her straight in the eye. _In and out_ , he told her, _breathe with me_ , and Lucy did. She tried. Eventually he was able to calm her down long enough to stop her from hyperventilating; to stop her flailing and the heaving of her chest, but she didn’t stop crying. He didn’t let go.

“I will fix it.” Glorfindel told her as he looked her straight in the eye. Although there was fear there, there was also a desperate sort of determination. “I promise. Do you understand?”

Lucy let out a hiccuping breath and nodded against his forehead. “Yes.” she warbled. It was the blood. It had to be the blood. The blood must have triggered it, and the severity of her situation – beyond her need for Glorfindel – was only sinking in now. Mairon. Mairon was doing something to her, and she’d been distracted for weeks with thoughts of missing children. Time was broken, and Fingon was in the city, and she couldn’t hide her eyes like she could wash away the blood.

O _h god._

“Do you believe me?” Glorfindel asked, even more fiercely as her breathing picked up. Lucy let out another sob, but nodded wordlessly. Glorfindel pressed his lips to her forehead and murmured something she couldn’t understand, his hand still cradling her head. There was a tingling sensation along her skin.

“It will be well, Nimeleth.” he soothed, but Lucy could feel his fear as if it were a living thing. She could feel the frantic beating of his heart as his chest pressed to hers. “I will not let them take you from me, I swear it. We… we just have to hide it, from the others.” Outside, the winter wind howled.

Shivering with shock, Lucy sat on the bed as Glorfindel quickly dried her off, saying nothing as he pulled his spare tunic over her head and pushed her arms through the sleeves. The tunic was far too big for her, falling all the way past her knees, but it smelt like **him** , and it calmed her down some. As he worked, Glorfindel talked.

“We must hide you,” Glorfindel muttered with feverish intensity, all in Quenya and seemingly without realizing he’d slipped into his native tongue. He was still sleepy-looking, and there was a sluggishness about his movements that spoke of blood loss. “We, we must hide you from… we must hide your affliction. Yes.” Once the tunic was over her head and her arms were through the sleeves, he braced his hand against her sides and helped her stand; reaching beneath the tunic to grab her dress and pull it past her hips until it was pooled around her feet on the bed. “Your room.” he said as he carefully disentangled the fabric from her feet and tossed it onto the floor in a pile with his. “Your room, yes. It would be best.”

“Laurëfindil.” Lucy said. “Laurëfindil, you’re speaking in Quenya.” Once the words were past her lips, she didn’t know why she’d said them. She didn’t know why she continued to lie and pretended she couldn’t understand.

Glorfindel’s reaction was slightly delayed, but when he looked at her his expression was one of agony. He leaned in and cradled her face and kissed her, and Lucy kissed him in return. “I am sorry,” he said in Sindarin as he leaned back, his hand still on her face. “I am sorry. Sometimes I forget. We… we must hide your affliction from the others. They will not understand.”

Lucy agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly.

Without another word Glorfindel stood and helped her off the bed; he gripped her hand and led her from the room, making sure that the hallway was empty before they exited. For a moment Lucy was blinded by all the details of the corridor. She could see the individual thread count in the carpet, the nicks and whorls in the white stone that arched above them and the myriad of colors that flickered in the lamplight beside the door. She could see so many details that it felt like an entirely different hallway, and when she didn’t move – when she simply stood there, blinking stupidly – Glorfindel tugged on her hand and gently pulled her forward.

The corridor was much, much cooler than it had been in the ellon’s room. Lucy was wearing nothing but his tunic, and her feet were bare. Soon she began to shiver. She didn’t know why they hadn’t taken the servant’s passage between her room and his, but surmised than maybe it was because Glorfindel was heavily distracted; she could tell by the way that he didn’t notice the audible clacking of her teeth. Still, the cold was growing, and when she tripped he finally turned around. When the ellon saw her shivering he picked her up. Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair.

“I’m cold,” she mumbled. It was a stupid thing to say, because her being cold was obvious, but talking to him calmed her down.

“I know.” Glorfindel said in a distracted manner as he turned a corner. “I know. I will take you somewhere warm, very soon. I promise.” Lucy was of the mind that there was no place that was warm in Middle-earth, except for him.

Down the hall and back up to her room they went. Like before – when they passed others in the hallway – no one seemed to realize that they were there. Glorfindel moved quickly though, and in no time at all they were in front of Lucy’s chamber. The elf lord put her down, then opened the door. They went inside, but once Lucy was past the threshold Glorfindel stopped, standing in the entrance.

“Glorfindel?” Lucy asked, turning around to face him. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His fingers ran along the shells of her ears.

“It is nothing.” he insisted, but it sounded like he was talking to himself. “It is nothing. I will keep you safe this time. The children… you… you will be well.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought. “Stay here. If Aeloth asks, you must tell her you were tired and I escorted you to your room. I will return.”

“Wait, what –”

But already the elf lord was drawing back and stepping into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. No word was mentioned as to where he was going, or what he planned to do. Lucy was left standing in the middle of her room, shrouded in darkness and wearing nothing but his tunic. The howl of the wind was muffled by the thick stone walls of the tower, but from up above near the rafters, gusts of snow drifted in. It was cold, and lonely. She hated it.

Lucy paced for a bit, unsure of what to do with herself. She paced in bare feet with Glorfindel’s too-big tunic slipping down her shoulder, alternating between gnawing on her fingernails with nervous tension and cradling her flat belly as she searched for a pair of heartbeats that were no longer there. There had never been anything there, but the _memory_ that there should be was inescapable. She needed stability. She needed an anchor. Lucy desperately needed something to make her feel **human** , and humans had babies. Monsters didn’t. If she had children, she could ignore the reality that she was changing into something else, Lucy decided. She wanted the picture-perfect family and fairy-tale life that Glorfindel was beginning to paint for her.

As she paced Lucy passed by her mirror. She didn’t look at herself at first, because she was scared, but eventually the urge to see her face became inescapable. When Lucy finally worked up the courage to look, her eyes were no longer black. She let out a cry of relief and rushed over to the mirror to examine her appearance.

Her eyes were blue, or at least they looked blue; the same pale blue with the same solemn stare and too-pale skin that had now taken on the chalky consistency of Maeglin’s. For a second Lucy was filled with joy. When she turned to the side and the low light hit her just right, however, she saw it. Black. Nothing but black. All of a sudden, she put two and two together. The blue eyes were an illusion.

Lucy remembered how Glorfindel had a habit of hiding things he didn’t want others seeing; she remembered how he’d kissed her forehead and whispered strange words against her skin. Now that she knew what she was looking for, the illusion didn’t work. When Lucy turned back to face her reflection head on, the dark eyes were on full display. There was no light to them; just blackness, like looking into the void of space.

Full of despair, Lucy went back to pacing. In her mind she could hear the phantom ticking of a clock counting down to her doom. The tone of it sounded a bit like Mairon.

Glorfindel did not come back in the first ten minutes, and he did not come back in an hour. Lucy eventually stopped pacing and crawled into bed. Huddling beneath the covers, she curled into a ball and pressed her hands to her middle as she fought off the sensation of nausea. What was happening to her? What was **going** to happen to her? What was Glorfindel going to do? How were they going to keep this a secret?

Another hour passed, and still Glorfindel didn’t return. It was early evening by now, and probably later. Lucy was too anxious to sleep, staring at the details of her covers as she waited for him to return. A third hour passed, and then another. When the door finally opened, Lucy sat bolt upright in bed, letting out a small cry of relief.

It was Aeloth. Beside her was another servant. Lucy’s relief died almost immediately.

The elleth simply stood in the doorway for a moment, a pile of fresh linens in hand. The servant beside her was the one that had helped Lucy escape to Maeglin’s; Maeleth, her name was. When no Glorfindel followed, Lucy was flooded with further disappointment. She wanted Glorfindel. She **needed** Glorfindel. How much longer was she supposed to wait?

Then the fear took hold, because her eyes. What if Aeloth saw her eyes? The elleth was already suspicious.

“Where have you been?” Aeloth demanded. It was all Lucy could do to stutter through the lie that Glorfindel had taught her.

“I was tired,” she said. “Glorfindel – Glorfindel brought me back.”

At first there was nothing; nothing but Lucy sitting on her bed, the covers pooling around her waist and the tunic slipping down her shoulder as the two ellith eyed her. Then ever so slowly Aeloth’s expression melted into horror. Maeleth seemed to realize something too. She put a hand to her mouth and covered it, her expression akin to shock. _The eyes_ , Lucy thought with fear. They could see her eyes. Oh god, they were going to report her for sure.

Tremulously, Lucy drew the covers around her, scooting back on the bed.

“It’s not what it looks like –” she began, but already Aeloth was handing the linens over to the other servant. Lucy held out a hand as if to stop her, scrambling back further on the bed. “Wait,” she pleaded. “Aeloth, wait, I didn’t do anything bad, I promise –”

“My Lady –” Maeleth began in Quenya, speaking to Aeloth, but Aeloth strode towards Lucy and paid her no mind. “My Lady, do you wish me to –”

“Leave us.” Aeloth said in a clipped, somewhat frantic tone.

“My Lady –”

“Leave us!”

Immediately Maeleth took the linens and closed the door. Lucy backed up further on the bed.

“Why are you dressed as such?” Aeloth demanded as she reached for her. The elleth’s hysteria was apparent now. “Why are you wearing Laurëfindil’s tunic? Where is your dress?!”

It took Lucy a moment to realize that the elleth wasn’t asking about her eyes; that Aeloth’s agitation wasn’t about blood or monsters at all. The shirt. She’d forgotten to take off Glorfindel’s shirt. It hadn’t even occurred to her to do so. Lucy’s heart dropped into her stomach. She wished Glorfindel had been there to shield her from the elleth’s anger, because she knew how she must have looked. How **this** looked.

“You… you aren’t supposed to be here. Glorfindel says so.” Lucy mumbled in her defense, but it was a weak one. Aeloth sucked in a shuddering breath as if the words had burned her. She reached for the covers and violently yanked them back. Lucy cried out and flinched as Aeloth grabbed her hand, dragging her forward.

“Stop!” she pleaded, scrabbling against the bed. The situation was snowballing, just as it had with Maeglin, only she didn’t know what to do. Lucy didn’t think she could handle it again; she knew she couldn’t handle it. Her thoughts felt _fragile_. “Stop, I didn’t do anything –”

“You are too young.” Aeloth muttered in Quenya as she pulled Lucy to the edge of the bed. Lucy struggled, kicking and squirming, but the elleth was far stronger despite her slender appearance, and Aeloth held on tight. “You are so young, you are too small, I told him not to touch you, ai Elbereth not to **you** –”

“I didn’t do anything!” Lucy insisted, but Aeloth pulled her arms away from her chest; shushing her with poorly disguised panic even as she yanked Lucy’s tunic open and slid her hand beneath it.

Lucy sobbed.

She closed her eyes and grit her teeth, trying to tell herself it didn’t matter and it could have been worse, but it didn’t work. Lucy knew what Aeloth was panicking about in an abstract manner; she knew that the elleth was already angry with Glorfindel, but she didn’t want the ash-haired elf touching her. Lucy didn’t want **anyone** touching her without her permission, but she wasn’t being given a choice and the panic was stark. She wanted to go home. She wanted Glorfindel, she hadn’t done anything –

Lucy’s mind abruptly shut down the moment Aeloth put a hand to her abdomen; she went limp as she felt the elleth move her palm back and forth, pressing down hard as if searching for something. A sigh of relief issued from the elleth’s lips when she found it empty. Lucy just curled up on the bed into a miserable little ball and sobbed.

“Did Laurëfindil touch you?” Aeloth asked. She lifted the tunic up even further to inspect the rest of her, but there was nothing there except for the bruises that Maeglin had given her. Lucy knew what the elleth was looking for, but she didn’t care. She hated her in that moment. She **hated** her. When Lucy didn’t answer right away, the elleth repeated her question.

“Did he **touch** you?” she demanded sharply. There was fear in her voice.

Mutely, full of rage and shame, Lucy shook her head against the mattress and let the tears fall. She felt Aeloth draw back in a stilted manner, as if finally realizing what she’d done. The elleth made a soothing noise and stroked her head, before apologizing repeatedly in a soft, mothering tone for scaring her. Lucy didn’t care. Aeloth could have found the blood or seen her eyes – she could have realized she was turning into a monster, instead of worrying about the state of her virginity – but the knowledge of this didn’t help. Lucy was still upset. She didn’t like this sort of touching, where she had no chance to say _no_. It didn’t matter that the touching wasn’t sexual, or that no one was beating her, and telling herself that it could have been worse just made her miserable. Lucy wanted to go back to the secret garden. She wanted to go somewhere warm. She wanted Glorfindel and she wanted her babies and she wanted her perfect family far away from here. The rest could rot.

_I will come for you, if you wish,_ the voice said. Lucy recognized it, now: a deep brassy cadence, full of seduction and mirth. Immediately, full of panic, she tried to shut it out. She wouldn’t listen to him. She couldn’t.

_You will_ , he said. _You always have._

Beside her Aeloth stroked her hair, apologizing again as Lucy’s cries broke out into outright sobs. Showing much more care than she had just minutes before, Aeloth slid her hands beneath Lucy’s side to help her up, drawing her into a full-on hug. The elleth rubbed her back, planting a motherly kiss to her cheek as she rocked her back and forth. It was the most affectionate the elf had ever been with her – the most motherly **anyone** had been with Lucy since she’d been transferred out of Limbrethil’s care – but Lucy didn’t like the feeling. She was the elleth’s charge, but she wasn’t her child. Lucy was beginning to wonder if Aeloth remembered that.

“I am sorry for startling you,” the elleth said as she stroked her back. Although she was much calmer now, there was still an edge to her voice. “It was not my intention to frighten you. But you must… you have to…” The elleth paused, clearing her throat before beginning again. When she spoke, her voice was saccharine. “You must understand these things are different for us. **Very** different, and Laurëfindil is not thinking clearly. He needs a wife to take his mind off things, but you must not encourage him in this sort of behavior. It is for your own good.”

“I thought you **liked** Glorfindel.” Lucy mumbled against her shoulder, trying to reconcile her rage with her misery. She didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

“Of course I do.” Aeloth demurred. “More than anything. He was a wonderful child, and mine to keep. But so are you, and you are still too small to take on this task. Laurëfindil must learn to accept this, and he must stop being so hasty. I will not have him damaging your health.”

The elleth kissed her cheek again, stroking her hair. “Come.” she said. “We must give you a bath, then put you to bed. Your body is fragile. We will finish fitting your dresses tomorrow.”

Silently – still trying to convince herself that it could’ve been worse, and failing miserably – Lucy let Aeloth lead her to the bath.

* * *

Lucy was put to bed and eventually fell asleep, but she didn’t stay so for long. When Aeloth left there was still no Glorfindel, and after she shut the door Lucy huddled up in the dark, wondering what she was supposed to do and if the elf lord would return. Just as she was drifting off into sleep, Lucy heard raised voices coming from the hallway. The words were spoken in Quenya. It was then that she discovered that Aeloth hadn’t gone far.

“Step aside.” a male voice said, slightly muffled by the door. It took Lucy a moment to realize that the ellon speaking was Glorfindel. Still groggy but desperate to see him, she struggled out of bed; nearly tripping over her long nightgown and shivering violently as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. She began to stumble towards the door.

“No.” said an elleth. It was Aeloth. Lucy felt her heart sink into her stomach as their voices escalated and their conversation quickly devolved into a fight.

“This is my estate.” Glorfindel said in rapid Quenya. Even through the door, Lucy could tell that he was incredibly upset. “My home, and I am its Lord. Lucy is under my care –”

“ **Exactly**.” Aeloth said, her voice rising to a shrill cadence. By now Lucy was at the door, pressing her ear to it as she listened. “Lucy is your ward, like you were mine, and you would do untoward things towards her. You would abuse her trust –”

“Never.” Glorfindel said savagely, and Lucy realized that his voice was shaking. There was a _thump_ against the door as Aeloth put her back to it; the jiggling of what sounded like the handle as the elleth gripped it. “Never,” insisted the elf lord. “I would **never** hurt her, she is my wif–”

“She is of the Edain, and not like us. She is young and fragile and of very poor health. If you are not careful she will perish, and then where would you be? Alone, Laurëfindil. You would be alone, **again** , and you were doing so well –”

“She won’t!” The words were nearly screamed. Lucy was sure the entire tower could hear them by now.

“Look at me.” Aeloth demanded. Lucy had never heard the elleth’s voice sound so _raw_. “Look me in the eye and say my fears are unfounded: that you consider her nothing more than your ward.”

“Nana, please –” Glorfindel begged. Suddenly he sounded much, much younger, and very needy.

“The Lord Ecthelion warned me.” Aeloth said coldly, and there was another soft _thump_ against the door as she shifted to stand more firmly in front of it. “He warned my brother. We told him not to fret: that you were much better now, more _patient_ , and you were as honourable as your father. That you would never do so something so foolish, or bring shame to this house. Were we wrong?”

“Nana, this is unfair.”

“Look me in the eye and say it.”

“Nana –”

“Look me in the eye and tell me I am wrong.”

“I would never –”

“You are better than this. I know you are better than this.”

“Nana, **please** –”

“Your ammë would be ashamed of you."

There was a terse silence that followed; one that was so agonizing that Lucy actually felt sick. All she could hear was the muted howl of the snowstorm, mixed with the uneven tempo of two heartbeats beyond the door. A few moments later Aeloth spoke again, only now she was contrite.

“Laurëfindil, if you would just wait –” she pleaded.

“How could you speak of my ammë that way?” Glorfindel bit out.. He sounded like he was on the verge of crying. His voice was wobbling. “How… how could you be so **cruel**?”

“Laurëfindil –”

“I am not a child anymore. I am a lord, like my atar.” the elf lord said. Then, “step aside.” Lucy had never heard him sound so brittle.

“Laurëfindil, please –”

“ **Step aside**.”

There was a brief pause, followed by a _thump_ against the door as Aeloth finally moved; the clatter of metal as someone else gripped the handle and pulled it back. Lucy barely had time to stumble away from the door before it was swung wide and Glorfindel was there, his tall form silhouetted by the light behind him. His breathing was ragged.

Without thinking the action through – and desperate for comfort – Lucy opened her arms, searching for a hug. The elf lord leaned down and picked her up without hesitation. His hands went beneath her armpits so he could hoist her up. Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his hair as he kissed the crown of hers. She could feel the desperation and fear coming off him – the way he shook with terror – but his actions were noticeably restrained. All too soon he set her down and let her lean against him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he unconsciously stroked her hair. Lucy was aware enough to realize that his restraint was due to Aeloth standing just a few feet away, watching them intently.

“I am sorry it took me so long to return.” Glorfindel said softly, ignoring the elleth completely. His voice still shook. “Are you cold?”

Lucy huddled closer, and took note of how he never mentioned specifics of what had happened _before_. She decided it would be wise if she followed suit. “A bit.” she mumbled. Glorfindel cradled the back of her head, the thick folds of his robe partially enveloping her as he let her lean against him. When he spoke next it was in Quenya, and his words were for Aeloth. There was a hardness to his voice that Lucy rarely heard unless she was in immediate danger. He was furious.

“Never keep her from me again, do you understand?”

“Laurëfindil –” Aeloth pleaded.

“ **Never**. She is family.”

“She is Edain, Laurëfindil. Edain die.”

Aeloth’s words were spoken raggedly – nuggets of truth dredged up from the silt of a pond – but they seemed to hit Glorfindel like a physical blow all the same. The elf lord staggered, his hand gripping Lucy’s back to the point of pain as he clapped his other hand over his mouth. His eyes were glassy, and he looked like he was on the verge of being sick.

Lucy wrapped her arms around his middle, trying to support him, but their height difference made it hard. The ellon’s long fingers curled into the fabric of her nightgown. The hand against his mouth shook.

“Laurëfindil.” Aeloth said in Quenya, reaching out in a hesitant manner as Glorfindel visibly crumpled with distress. “Laurëfindil, I did not mean it as such –”

“Leave us,” the elf lord said unevenly. “Leave. I must… I must speak to her before she returns to her chambers.” Aeloth’s eyes darted from Lucy to Glorfindel, then back again. Her gaze was fearful, but Lucy didn’t know whom she was fearful for. Perhaps both.

“Laurëfindil –”

“LEAVE US!”

A wounded expression crossed the elleth’s features, but Aeloth quickly strode away. The moment she was no longer visible Lucy tugged on Glorfindel’s tunic, trying to get his attention. He was still shaking, his hand clapped over his mouth as he stared at nothing. Lucy had never thought about it before, but she did now; forever for her meant **forever** , but for Glorfindel Lucy’s forever was the equivalent of a decade, at most. He was immortal and she would die.

_Don’t be hasty_ , Aeloth always told him, but maybe he had no choice.

“Glorfindel.” Lucy said, tugging on his tunic again. “Glorfindel, it’s okay. I won’t die for a long time.” She knew it wasn’t a long time for him, but didn’t know how else to make him feel better. It took Glorfindel a moment to respond, but when he did it was as if he were waking from a daze.

“You understood what was said?” he asked, his expression one of distant horror. The secret was out, and Lucy was honest. Mutely, she nodded in confirmation. She didn’t really speak it yet, but she could understand Quenya fairly well.

Still visibly shaken Glorfindel leaned down, gently cradling either side of her head as he pressed a desperate kiss to her crown. When he spoke into her hair, his words were no more than a whisper.

“She is still watching, so I cannot stay long.”

Lucy was about to ask _where_ Aeloth was watching from, but from the way Glorfindel’s grip tightened she realized it was a bad idea, so she stopped.

“Did she see?” he asked. He didn’t elaborate, but Lucy knew what he was talking about. She reached up and gripped the hands that were gripping her, shaking her head.

“I forgot to change your tunic,” she explained. “She thought you did something to me.”

The elf lord sagged against her in what seemed to be relief, pressing another chaste kiss to her forehead. It was full of reverence and relief.

“We must be more careful,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, but Lucy knew the consequences if they weren’t. Hyper-conscious of the fact that Aeloth was still watching them, she simply nodded. If she wanted to get through this, safety was of the utmost importance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a big thank you to msg839, EpitomyofShyness and LittlePorcelainDoll for beta’ing.


	33. Feeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised June 10, 2016

After that, Glorfindel grew paranoid.

There had always been an anxiousness to him that Lucy had noticed; a fragility to his nerves that was prone to rising whenever he was particularly distressed. Physical violence didn’t seem to do it, nor the near-constant comments about his half-Vanya heritage, but anything concerning Lucy **did**. Even before the blood and the black eyes and Aeloth finding out about his tunic, Glorfindel had been consumed by a near-fanatical desire to keep her safe. He had a compulsive need to keep her coddled, and a need to be needed, and the fact that Lucy was in very real danger of being taken away from him only made his anxieties worse.

He tried to be better about his neuroses; he really did, and for that Lucy loved him and never complained, but his nerves were shot. She understood in an abstract way that her body dysmorphia was related to him. She knew that the elf lord was utterly traumatized by the fact that there were no children, but Lucy didn’t understand how their connection worked, or why it was happening in the first place. The sense of wrongness was a constant thing; the knowledge that she was supposed to be heavy with child an unending source of despair. Always, Lucy dreamt of the tightness of her belly. Of the way it jutted out in front of her, warm and pendulous, and she **wanted** it that way; to feel her skin stretch and her back bow with the weight of her babies; to hear their heartbeats beating and feel them growing big inside. More than anything, Lucy loved her children. She loved the thought of **being** with child, and her mind was telling her it had always been that way. Although the feeling of _loss_ was not as crippling as it had been before, she couldn’t ignore it. At night, she would dream of things. Happy things, like a youthful-looking Glorfindel sitting beside her. His nervous expression would melt into a gentle smile when he saw her recline upon a nest of pillows, her small hands stroking her heavily swollen sides.

Always Glorfindel would watch her in those dreams, his gaze feverish and attention fixed on her womb. He was young, this Glorfindel: willowy-looking, and more slender than in real life, but not by much. The ellon wore his clothes with an unconscious sort of chaos, his golden belt askew on his hips and his wide-necked shirt dipping down across a porcelain shoulder. Beautiful, he was, and the area around them was beautiful too; a valley gorge full of golden grass as far as the eye could see. The gentle whistle of the summer wind wound its way across the shimmering plains beyond that, while a ridge of white-tipped mountains rippled in the distance. Above them, the sky was always full of stars.

“Here.” Lucy would say with a smile. She would reach out, guiding Glorfindel’s hand to the bottom of her belly where the curve was the deepest, the skin stretched unbearably tight. “You can feel them here.” Gently Lucy would pull the ellon’s hand to where the children were turning, placing it against her too-large belly and sighing in relief when he’d reverently cup her flesh. She loved it when he touched her there, and she loved how he’d been the one to put the babies inside her. Lucy loved being full, and she loved **feeling** full, but when she woke her children were never there.

She was haunted by the sensation of twin heartbeats; by the phantom feeling of two infants nestled above her pelvis. Lucy didn’t understand it, but the memory of _children_ had left its mark on her like an imprint, and she couldn’t forget it. She didn’t want to. She needed them back.

When pressed on the subject Glorfindel became evasive, saying the sensation was an Eldar thing, and an accident. He would apologize, huddle up in his proverbial shell, and pick at his sleeves, his eyes trained to the floor and his body language screaming avoidance.

“It is not important,” he would say in a trembling voice. There were dark circles around his eyes these days that weren’t from blood loss, but lack of sleep. Nearly two weeks without sleep, Lucy learned later. He was suffering from nightmares. Glorfindel didn’t like talking about unpleasant things – he was physically adverse to them to the point of vomiting – but he was trying to do so, for her. “It is not important,” he would repeat, again and again. “I was foolish and hasty and very young, and I did not listen. I, I… I will do better this time. I will **wait**.”

The words were dragged from his throat like broken glass, his expression agonized. Lucy didn’t know what he was waiting for, but she knew he didn’t want to wait and neither did she. She couldn’t stand to see him in any sort of pain, however, and they had bigger concerns to worry about. Rumors were spreading around Glorfindel’s keep: rumors of a more salacious kind that involved both him and her.

The rumors didn’t spread as quickly outside the estate because of the weather, but within the first week everyone was looking at them with blatant suspicion. The speed and intensity at which the gossip spread made Lucy think that the notion had already been there, only now it was fully confirmed. Whenever she passed a servant in the halls, the elves would stare. When they thought she was out of earshot, they would whisper amongst themselves.

_Is it true?_ they would say. _Yes_ , others would whisper.  

_But she’s **Edain**_ , was always the scandalized reply.

The general sense that Lucy got from all the whispering was that the elves felt pity for her: a deep concern for Glorfindel’s mental state, along with a general consensus that both of them were diving headlong off a cliff. Lucy had heard more than once that Glorfindel had gone through a period of illness, or whatever it was that elves-who-couldn’t-get-sick fell prey to, and it had been stated on numerous occasions that he was unstable, but he’d been getting much better in recent centuries.

_He is ill again._ the servants would say sadly. _It is good that his father is no longer here._

Lucy knew next to nothing about Glorfindel’s father, except that Glorfindel was nothing like him. She also knew that the elf lord had heard his household whispering, and all too often she saw how his hands shook and his expression filled with shame whenever those whispers reached his ears. The rage Lucy felt on his behalf was frightening. The bloodlust she felt at their casual cruelty was barely kept in check. He didn’t deserve it. Glorfindel wasn’t perfect, and he **was** too protective, but he was also kind, and he would never, ever hurt her. Not like Maeglin. He was just lonely and terrified of being rejected.

Lucy tried not to think about Maeglin these days. The bruises had faded, but her shoulder still felt sore from where she’d fallen on it.

“How old did you say you were?” Nimel asked, two mornings after the tunic incident. Aeloth had recruited her and Maeleth into fitting Lucy’s dress for the Solstice. Lucy stood in front of her, utterly still as the dark-haired elleth turned up the long hem that dragged across the floor.

“Eighteen.” She said, biting her tongue. _It could be worse. Think of Glorfindel_ , she tried telling herself in a mantra, but it didn’t work. Nimel made a sniffing sound of distaste as she adjusted the hem. Beside her, Aeloth continued fixing one of Lucy’s sleeves.

“It will be strange.” Nimel said. “To see someone so young carrying a child. Do you think you will die when you –”

“ **Enough**.” Aeloth spat, savagely fixing a bit of beading along Lucy’s sleeve. The elleth’s face was white with rage, her eyes all but glowing. Nimel said nothing more, and neither did the other handmaidens, but the damage was done.

Lucy knew that Aeloth hadn’t been the one to let word slip about the tunic. The elleth was furious with Glorfindel – and Lucy’s opinion of her was the lowest it had ever been – but the ancient elf was fiercely protective of her former charge, and of his reputation. If she hadn’t been such a coward Lucy would have pinned the gossip on _Maeleth_ , but the elleth was fearful of her own shadow. Most likely, the screaming match between Aeloth and Glorfindel had been the cause. Everyone had heard it.

Glorfindel and his former nanny were no longer talking; any words exchanged between the two were terse and to the point. Aeloth chaperoned Lucy wherever she went, but the minute the elf lord arrived she would reluctantly give way. She also stopped trying to interfere in what Glorfindel did with her.

Lucy would have been all right with this – the less Aeloth was around, the easier it was to hide the fact that she was changing – but Glorfindel’s estrangement from Aeloth caused him visible grief. The elf lord was easily hurt by interpersonal conflict, and seemed unable to bounce back from it, regardless of whom the argument was with. He was no good with separation.

“Apologize to her.” Lucy pleaded with him by the end of the first week, when they had a moment alone. She was desperate to make him see reason, if only to stop him from wallowing further. “Just talk to her. It will be fine.”

“No.” Glorfindel told her, but his voice wavered. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand, the other gripping the armrest of his chair as he slumped backwards in his seat. “No, she tried to take you away from me. She hurt you. It is… it is **unforgivable**.”

Lucy hated what Aeloth had done, but even she didn’t think that the elleth had tried to take her away from him. What Laurëfindil wanted, Laurëfindil got, and Aeloth was so doting towards Glorfindel that Lucy was sure that – if she’d been just a few years older – the elleth would have encouraged their union with a smile.

“She wouldn’t do that,” she said. “She’s just upset.”

“It is better this way.” Glorfindel choked out, his foot jigging against the floor. “You… you will be safe.”

And that was the crux of the matter, really: the heart of all his issues. Everything boiled down to her and her safety, and Lucy was only now beginning to realize just how crippled Glorfindel was by his fear of losing her.

Ever since Fingon’s arrival, the entire city had become obsessed with the war. The snow protected them at the moment – the winter winds that whipped through the encircling mountains were some of the fiercest on the continent – but the general consensus was that Morgoth’s forces were closing in. Once the spring arrived, the Gondolindrim would join Fingon in an assault on Angband. Turgon hadn’t agreed yet, but the delay was simple conjecture. The general sense of paranoia that permeated the city had heightened as a result. If they hadn’t been suspicious of Lucy before, the elves were downright murderous now. Lucy was already considered compromised, and if they had known what was happening to her, they would have acted on those suspicions.

_Mercy-killing_ , they would’ve called it, but that didn’t change what it was. Whenever he was home, Glorfindel never left her side for fear that something might happen to her. Noldor were exceptionally dangerous when cornered.

“We have to keep you safe,” the elf lord kept saying, mostly to himself. Three days after the incident with the tunic, he’d cornered her in her room and shut the door. “We have to make sure they don’t see.” He began rooting through his pocket for something, stepping towards her and kneeling down beside the edge of her bed. “Do you understand?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Lucy said, looking nervously towards the entrance. “They’re saying things about you. Mean things.”

“It is fine.” Glorfindel said, but from the way his expression pinched Lucy knew that it wasn’t. The ellon was sensitive on the best of days, and he was too kind to handle the sort of scrutiny that gossip cultivated. “It is better if they think… it is safer if they –” Glorfindel couldn’t finish the sentence, looking down and swallowing hard. He didn’t say anything of an overtly sexual nature, but Lucy knew what he’d been thinking.

The elf lord withdrew something from his pocket. It was thin and wrapped in a small, soft grey cloth. When he opened it the fabric revealed another shackle, slender and delicate as the ones currently wrapped around her wrist. Immediately Lucy sucked in a sharp breath and backed away from him on her bed, shaking her head. She didn’t like her shackles. She didn’t want to wear another one. She was already trapped, both by Gondolin and Mairon.

“No.” she said tremulously. It was the first time she’d told Glorfindel _no_ in months, but her eyes were black and she was drinking blood. She’d make an exception for this.

“Please, Nimeleth.” Glorfindel said, reaching out for her with his other hand, his expression heartfelt and anxious. Lucy shook her head.

“No. I don’t want to do it.”

“It… it will let me find you, if they take you.” he explained in a tremulous voice. Glorfindel’s eyes were luminous, his panic barely held in check. “It will keep you hidden from _him_. From my people, too.” He was talking about Mairon, but he didn’t say the Maia’s name. Glorfindel never said his name, or Morgoth’s. Lucy clutched her hands in the front of her dress.

“I don’t like wearing them.” she insisted, and her voice was just as tremulous as his. “It makes… it makes me feel **trapped**.”

“You are already wearing two.” Glorfindel reasoned. The words were dredged from somewhere deep inside, and it was clear he didn’t wish to say them. The ellon tried to smile reassuringly, but failed. “The bands were supposed to stop you from changing. From, from him… from him hurting you. But they weren’t strong enough.”

“You knew?!” Lucy exclaimed. She tried to tell herself there was a good reason for his silence, but it didn’t change the fact that it hurt. For months she’d thought she was going mad, and she could have used Glorfindel’s help so much sooner. The ellon’s expression crumpled with shame.

“The King suspected.” he admitted. He was on his knees now, practically begging. “He was the one who ordered the bands to be made. He told me if they didn’t work, they would have to… he would kill…” The elf lord couldn’t finish, but Lucy knew what he was getting at. The fact that the King had been actively planning to murder her all along was horrifying.

“What about Aeloth?” Lucy asked, grasping at straws, but she didn’t back away from him now. She didn’t want to die. “She gives me baths. She will see it –”

“She won’t.” Glorfindel promised immediately, moving forward on his knees with his arms outstretched in pacification. His expression was one of desperation. “She won’t. I put an enchantment on it, like the garden. It will stay hidden. Please, Lucy, please, please –”

“Only… only the one?” she finally asked.

“Yes.”

“No more?”

“I promise.”

Wiping at the tears that were threatening to form, Lucy nodded in acquiescence and shuffled forward on the bed to stick out her arm. It was the one that already had the shackles. Glorfindel sagged with relief, but he shook his head. “No.” he murmured. “No, it does not go there.”

“Where then?”

“Give me your foot.”

Mutely, Lucy un-tucked her foot from beneath her thigh and held it out to Glorfindel. Gently – full of reverence – the elf lord took it, briefly placing the shackle on his lap as he pulled her heavy skirts up around her knee to expose her leg. “Thank you,” he said. Lucy could see how close he was to the breaking point by the visible tremors that ran along his arms and shoulders. “Thank you. I will keep you safe this time, I promise.”

Glorfindel’s fingers were shaking as he slid the shackle around her ankle, his voice strangled-sounding as he pressed his hand over the metal and murmured something in Quenya. The shackle grew hot for a moment, before it cooled and literally shrunk before Lucy’s eyes. When the change was done the band was large enough that it didn’t cause her any sort of pain, but it was too small to slip off, and there was no clasp. Lucy tried not to think of how little freedom she had, or how she’d just bartered away the last tiny bit. She loved Glorfindel, and she liked it when he took care of her, but not like this. They were both being forced into _this_ , and although Lucy was willing to make her home in Gondolin, it was clear now that they didn’t want her. In hindsight she shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was painful, being unwanted. Lucy was so tired of being hated.

“Thank you.” Glorfindel said again, repeating the words like a mantra. He kissed her knee before he pressed his forehead to it and sagged against her in exhaustion. “ **Thank you**.”

“I want to go.” Lucy mumbled, wiping at her eyes as the tears started to fall. Glorfindel looked up, his expression befuddled, his eye sockets darkened by lack of sleep.

“Go where, Dear One?” he asked. Lucy started to cry in earnest, the tears leaking faster than she was able to wipe them away.

“Away from Gondolin, to the coast. I want to go home.”

“You do not like Gondolin anymore?”

“Gondolin doesn’t want me.” It physically hurt to say it.

Glorfindel’s expression crumpled. His fingers ran up and down her bare leg, stroking her calf in comfort.

“ **I** want you.”

Lucy couldn’t stop crying. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, looking off to the side as she struggled to express herself in words.

“You aren’t Gondolin. I want a… I’m tired.”

Glorfindel’s bottom lip trembled. He lowered his head a second time, letting his forehead rest once more against her knee. His voice was dull with exhaustion.

“It is the war,” he said. “If it weren’t for Morgoth, they would not… they would not be so cruel.” Lucy sniffled and rubbed at her nose.

“But they’re mean to you, too. They say things, about us.”

Glorfindel was silent, stroking her leg. Then:

“In the spring.”

“ _In the spring,_ what?”

“In the spring, I will take you to the coast. I just… I must finish some things before then. Please endure it.”

Lucy said nothing, choosing instead to curl around him as she rested her head atop his. Her silence was answer enough.

“Are you hungry?” Glorfindel asked against her knee, his voice muffled as he spoke. Lucy knew what he meant and shook her head. She **was** hungry, but it was hunger of a different sort: the desire to hold him and the desire to touch him. She wanted him inside her, but ever since Aeloth had found her wearing his tunic Glorfindel had been incredibly reserved. Lucy hated it, but the elf lord was so stressed it seemed cruel to press him for something so frivolous.

“No.” Lucy mumbled.

The ellon stroked the back of his knuckles against her leg, his touch growing more languid. “Are you sure?” he persisted. Lucy nodded and massaged his ear with her thumb, kissing the top of his head.

“Of course.”

Glorfindel didn’t say anything more, but her hunger soon became a source of contention between them.

Lucy really **didn’t** need to feed the first week after the garden. She was a glutton, but it was gluttony she could easily ignore. For a couple days, her health improved enormously. She wasn’t as tired as she’d been before, nor as dizzy, and beside the constant compulsion to find her children, Lucy was able to banish her more sensual desires to the back of her brain. Her eyes were black, but with the multitude of illusions that had been cast on them, they appeared their usual solemn blue. If she shunned vegetables during meals and began to eat more meat – the rawer the better – no one made any untoward comments about it. Lucy even put on some much-needed weight that had been lost during her prolonged illness, and she put it on fast. Mostly around her middle.

“Your health has improved.” Aeloth said with visible surprise, about five days after the tunic-incident. She was carefully braiding Lucy’s hair and had gone out of her way to be especially kind to her. Lucy still wasn’t talking to the elleth. She had told Glorfindel to forgive her, but in truth Lucy was angrier with Aeloth than she’d been with Maeglin. She’d lost a friend with him, but Aeloth almost bordered on family. Whenever she thought about the incident the bitter taste that flooded her throat was overwhelming.

Aeloth finished off her braid, stroking the top of her head. Lucy’s hair was thick and glossy now, and noticeably shining with health. “Perhaps a change in diet was what you needed.” The elleth continued. “You have always been so picky with your food.”

Lucy didn’t bother to correct her.

Even though she was better for the first five days, Glorfindel’s persistent questioning about her hunger did not let up. He was home less frequently now, on account of the King, but when it came to keeping her safe and keeping her healthy, Glorfindel’s devotion bordered on zealotry. Whenever they had a free minute alone, he would always ask her if she was hungry.

“You need to eat.” he would say, cradling the side of her head and stroking her hair as he’d offer himself up on a proverbial platter, trying to catch her gaze. “You need to. You will grow ill.” Each time Lucy would refuse, even though every day she grew a little bit weaker.

“I don’t need to eat,” she would tell him, again and again. “Not yet.” But the boost of energy didn’t last long, and by the start of the second week, Lucy was beginning to tire, and sleeping longer. Regular food was starting to make her sick.

“Please.” Glorfindel said, trying to catch her gaze one morning. She still shook her head and looked away, eying a missive that had been placed on his desk. It looked like a royal decree.

“Are you going away again?” she asked. Morwen had locked herself in her room once more, and Lucy was so friendless in Gondolin that the thought of Glorfindel leaving filled her with terror.

The ellon’s expression twisted; his lips were warm as he leaned down and pressed them to the corner of hers. Lucy wished he would kiss her elsewhere – wished he would rip off her clothes and push himself inside her – but he was holding himself back. Lucy could **feel** him holding back, and it was driving her crazy.

“Not for long.” he promised. “Just a few days.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” he said too quickly, looking away. Lucy latched on to his avoidance like a dog to a bone. It was a sure sign something was amiss.

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you tell me?” she demanded. Glorfindel hated it when she was upset, but Lucy was done with being ignored. She was willing to do absolutely anything to keep him with her. Glorfindel cupped her cheek and gave her a terse smile. The gesture failed to assuage her.

“Nothing important.” he assured here. “Some guards have gone missing. I must help the others track them down.”

Lucy glared, but nodded _okay._ The solstice was just four weeks away, and they had to keep the city secure because of it. She doubted she would get anything else out of him.

Glorfindel kissed her on the forehead, leaning back. “Are you sure you are not hungry?” he asked. Lucy nodded once more. A few hours later, the elf lord left. The chance to feed was lost. But a few days devolved into a week, and soon it was five days into December.

By then, Lucy was rendered bedridden and starving.

* * *

Despite being ill and desperate to feed, Lucy did not get a chance to see Glorfindel right after he returned, on account of his duties and his inability to escape his household’s attention. Still, she tried to crawl out of bed to meet him, feverish and soaked with sweat.

“You are too weak.” Aeloth said softly. She handled Lucy more carefully now, but the way she was looking at her was strange. When the elleth sniffed at the air, her expression grew stranger. Gently, she pushed Lucy back onto her bed, brushing her hair away from her sweat-soaked forehead before pulling up her nightgown to hide the swell of her breasts.

“Like you care.” Lucy spat through chattering teeth, her hands clenching in the covers. She still hadn’t forgiven Aeloth for what she’d done, and being sick brought out the worst in her. She wanted to see Glorfindel.

The elleth flinched at her words, her normally placid expression turning sad. Aeloth was less mechanical these days; not as distant, and more apologetic, but Lucy was fairly certain that was how Glorfindel’s former nanny responded to stress. Her brother Aearmarth was the same way, and the lead up to war was worsening.

“Of course I care, child,” she said. “You are innocent in all of this.” A moment later she slid her hand down, pressing it to Lucy’s abdomen. Lucy flinched at the contact, but didn’t remove it, half-insensible with hunger and on the verge of hallucinating. In a corner of the room Morwen sat atop a pillow-festooned chair, knitting what looked to be a blanket. She watched the movement of Aeloth’s hand like a hawk.

“But I’m supposed to meet him.” Lucy insisted, twisting her head towards the door as the world spun above her. “I always… I always meet him. I come when called.” Aeloth gave her a tight smile as she removed her hand from her middle. Morwen surreptitiously went back to knitting, her dark hair hidden beneath her winter veil. The older woman was in one of her moods again.

“You may see him later, child.” the elleth hedged delicately. She wouldn’t look her in the eye. “You are too weak to walk. You need rest.” There was a knock at the door, and Aeloth turned. Maeleth opened it but didn’t enter.

“My lady.” she said.

Aeloth sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “I will return,” she muttered to no one in particular, stepping towards the door. Without another word the two ellith left. Morwen stayed. The minute the door closed with a soft _clack_ the older woman got up, quickly striding to Lucy’s bedside. She sat on the edge of the mattress. Lucy lay still, feverish and gasping for air. Her body felt like it was on fire, and her shackles were burning. She was so hungry she was on the verge of sobbing. Everything hurt. Morwen reached out and stroked her head.

“How are you feeling, child?” she asked, not unkindly. Lucy swallowed. She closed her eyes to avoid looking at Morwen’s throat, trying to ignore the pulsing cadence of the woman’s blood.

“Hungry.” she croaked out. “M’always hungry, and tired. I’m so dizzy. It hurts.”

The woman’s hand stilled against her head, before she began stroking again.

“Can you keep your food down?” she asked. Lucy shook her head _no._ She needed meat, but every time she smelt it, she felt sick. She needed flesh, but not the flesh they were feeding her.

“Are you with child, Sweetness?” Morwen asked abruptly. Her tone was soft but resigned. It took Lucy a moment to realize what Morwen was saying, and when she did she opened her eyes, swallowing thickly.

“What?” she croaked out. Lucy knew what Aeloth and the others suspected – that Glorfindel had already made a move – but this was the first time anyone had vocalized the results in so blatant a term. The words left her reeling with the implication of it.

Morwen sighed. Without compunction she reached down, placing a hand to Lucy’s slightly swollen belly. “Is there a child in there?” she asked, speaking slowly. Still confused and addled from hunger, Lucy shook her head.

“Why would a baby be there?” she repeated dumbly, trying to process Morwen’s words. Part of her wanted to say _my children are missing_ , but the past and the present were getting all tangled together, and she couldn’t get her tongue to form the words.

Morwen grimaced and reached out with her other hand to stroke Lucy’s sweat-soaked forehead. “You have the look of a woman newly heavy with one.” she admitted. “And the elves are suspicious. I had thought –”

“What do you mean I have the _look_?” Lucy demanded, trying to think through her hunger. It was so strong that it was all she could do not to reach up and rip open Morwen’s throat with her teeth. The older woman’s smile was gentle and knowing, but also sad.

“Oh child. Did no one teach you?”

Lucy felt Morwen run her hand over her abdomen in soothing circles; she saw the woman’s dark eyes dart back and forth as she eyed her swollen breasts and slightly bloated stomach. Lucy knew she’d put on a bit of weight since she’d started drinking Glorfindel’s blood, but she hadn’t thought it was noticeable. She definitely hadn’t thought it looked like _that_.

“Taught me what?” she asked in a warbling tone. Morwen sighed again, massaging Lucy’s middle. Her look of resignation deepened, as if Lucy’s supposed condition had been a forgone conclusion, and a decidedly unwelcome one.

“A woman’s body changes when she’s expecting a child.” Morwen said, but for a second Lucy forgot what they were talking about. All she heard was the word _changes,_ and was terrified that Morwen **knew**. Lucy thought of black eyes beneath the blue, and her too-pale skin; she thought of the way she could hear heartbeats across the hallway and the taste of blood on the tip of her tongue. No one could know. No one except Glorfindel. She sucked in a sharp breath, clenching her hands against the pillows as she shrank into the covers. Morwen leaned forward, making shushing sounds as she stroked her hair.

“Hush, Sweetness. It is to be expected. It is natural.”

“But I’m not, I didn’t do anything – they’re **missing** –”

“Rest.” the woman commanded, leaning back to finish her weaving. “You will need it.” Lucy wanted to protest some more, but she was too tired, so she did.

When she slept, Lucy dreamed. She only caught glimpses of it, but it was more than enough to traumatize her. The dream was a nightmare this time – the worst she’d had in months. Lucy saw herself, reclining on a bed; a giant bed made of black glass shards with her in the center of it, nestled amongst the pillows and utterly naked, save for a slithering black nightgown that was so thin it was see-through. Her pregnant belly was jutting out in front of her, her legs splayed by the girth of her womb. _Thump-thump-bathump_ went her babies’ heartbeats as they turned inside her, and Lucy was beautiful but terrifying in that moment: a perverted mimicry of life, on the verge of giving birth.

“Why?” someone was saying, and it took Lucy a moment to realize the someone who was speaking was her. Her straining belly heaved with each ragged breath, her heavy breasts engorged with milk. “Why do you have to be so **cruel**?” Her arms shook as she struggled to prop herself up, but she was too weighed down by her bulk. One of her babies kicked. Lucy gasped for air, her hand going to her bloated side. Everything felt so impossibly full, her belly stretched to the breaking point. Around her everything was black, and past her room beyond an iron-spiked balcony, the sky was black too. The valley below was dark and treacherous, and in the distance, three volcanoes were belching fire.

“Why? Is the bed not to your liking?” someone asked in return.

A man sat in front of her, in a chair by the window: a giant of a man with the most intoxicating features. He wasn’t an elf, but not really human either. His lips were full, his hair a pale strawberry blond. When the stranger looked up, his eyes reflected the light like a cat’s. He held a child in his lap: a toddler, really, sporting deep golden curls and cobalt blue eyes. The baby’s ears were distinctly elfin, and the stranger was letting the little boy chew on his fingers. Those fingers were tipped with claws.

“Please.” Lucy begged, then let out a groan, her head falling back and her hand clutching her side as one of her babies kicked harder. “ _Please_ , it’s almost time.”

“You have a few months left,” the man-that-wasn’t a man countered. “They won’t be born before then.” He tilted his head further to eye her fecund belly, his expression shimmering with mirth. “Besides,” he sing-songed. “I don’t like it when you speak that way. _Cruelty_ is such a mortal concept.”

On his knee the baby gurgled, slobbering all over the stranger’s too-long fingers. Lucy lifted a shaking hand in their direction; the other remained braced against the bed to keep herself from toppling over. She was so big she couldn’t walk.

“Give me my son,” she panted, and her fear was an encompassing thing. The man grinned, full and seductive, his voice rumbling like a bell as he rubbed the toddler’s back. His eyes were made of magma, and there was fire between his teeth.

“Why? Are you nervous?”

“Just give me my son!”

“But what’s yours is mine. Besides, it’s just a peredhil. They’re worthless.”

At that, Lucy woke up.

She woke up in her bed, and then she gagged, sick to her stomach and utterly overwhelmed with disgust. Lucy clamped a hand over her mouth to try and fight back the nausea, but it was no use. A moment later she rolled to the side and puked up her breakfast onto the floor.

The shackles weren’t working. She knew they weren’t working, and she couldn’t forget. Mairon. **Mairon** was behind it, meandering closer, and she needed Glorfindel to save her. She needed to feed on him, to smother the nightmares.

Still weak but desperate to eat, Lucy stumbled out of her bed as if in a trance, feeling her way along the wall and clutching her nightgown closed across her front. She saw double as she opened the door and stumbled into the hall. Her body felt strangely heavy; her breasts were sore, her abdomen bloated. Her body burned with the thirst. _It’s time_ , something told her, but Lucy didn’t know what time it was _for_.

It was still early in the afternoon and Glorfindel was in his study, so Lucy took the servants’ stairs to his room, one aching step at a time. She tripped twice and nearly bashed her head in, and when Lucy reached his room, she was so shaken from her nightmares that she simply collapsed atop his bed, curling into a ball. Nine days. Nine days was the absolute maximum that she could go without feeding, and by fourteen, she was insensible. There was no way she could survive being away from Glorfindel for any longer, and the nightmares had to stop.

It took some time for the elf lord to arrive. When he did it was in a rather harried manner. His door opened with a rush, his tall form quickly stepped inside. “Lucy?” he said, looking around himself, before he spotted her huddled up on his bed. “Lucy.” he sighed in relief, and then he was stepping forward. “Nimeleth, why were you not in your–”

Glorfindel stopped short, taking in a sudden breath like he was sniffing the air. His whole body grew rigid as he stood just a few paces from the door.

When the elf lord didn’t come any closer Lucy opened her eyes and pulled herself into a sitting position, weak and aching all over. Her movements were uncoordinated, her nightgown falling down her shoulder. She tried to focus on the ellon, but failed; all she could think of was his neck and his blood, hidden beneath all that golden hair. The nightmare still haunted her, and the space between her legs was wet. Lucy liked her dreams of Valinor better. She wanted to go back to the grotto.

_It’s time._

“M’hungry, Laurëfindil.” she told him. Lucy pressed her legs together in an attempt to relieve the ache that was building there, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to touch him. She needed to feed. Like her words had been the release on a pressurized container, Glorfindel let out a ragged expulsion of air. He nodded.

“Of course, Nimeleth.” he said breathlessly. Lucy was conscious enough to watch him stagger forward. “Of… of course. Anything for you.”

The ellon made his way towards her with more desperation than usual, pulling his hair to the side and tugging off his cloak. Lucy couldn’t be sure, because it was so hard to concentrate on anything other than the pulsing sound of his blood, but Glorfindel’s eyes looked black. She was so hungry she crawled off the bed and stumbled forward to meet him, her hands outstretched. She needed to feed **now** , and she was willing to do it on the floor.

“Laurëfindil –”

“Shh, Nimeleth, one moment.” Glorfindel soothed, and the knife was already at his throat. Immediately red began to drip. He dropped the dagger, staggering into a nearby chair to keep himself from toppling over as Lucy all but tackled him. She clung to his torso in an attempt to get to his neck. Clumsy and uncoordinated, the ellon fell back onto the seat and pulled her atop him. Lucy wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her fingers digging into his back as she brought her mouth to the wound and drank.

“Nimeleth, I will give you everything.” Glorfindel said, pulling her forward. “I will take you to the ever-summer. It will be alright.”

Utterly insensible with the need to feed, Lucy continued drinking. And _oh_ , the blood. It was as good as before, and just as sweet. Lucy moaned with relief and bit deeper, rolling her hips against his as she felt Glorfindel grow hard. The ellon’s hands went to her rear, pushing her against him. _It’s time,_ something inside her whispered, and Lucy opened her legs further. Without thinking she let her weight sink atop his groin, even as she drank. Nothing else mattered, and she’d chosen him for the task.

“Nimeleth.” Glorfindel gasped in surprise. “Nimeleth, ai Elebereth, the _scent._ ” Lucy felt the ellon run his hands along her thighs, yanking up her nightgown to leave her bottom half exposed. He hurriedly reached between them to tug at the lacings to his leggings, trying to free himself from his pants. Lucy continued drinking, her face still buried in his throat.

Through the haze of bloodlust, Lucy felt the elf lord press a kiss to her ear. She could sense the way he finally managed to free himself, pulling his shaft out and taking himself in hand. “Lucy.” Glorfindel gasped. Neither of them were thinking anymore, utterly consumed by the moment. “Lucy, the _scent_ –”

Then, there was a knock at the door.

At first neither of them paid any attention to it. Even when the knock sounded again, Lucy simply moaned into Glorfindel’s neck and kept on feeding, half-naked and legs spread wide. The ellon’s shaft was still out. Lucy could feel something hot and hard pressing against the inside of her thigh, but Glorfindel made no move to enter her. The elf lord shook all over, burying his face in the crook of her neck. When the knock sounded a third time, he groaned.

“My lord.” Aearmarth said at the door. “My lord, are you well?”

Glorfindel panted against Lucy’s shoulder as she continued to feed; she felt the motion of his hand slowly sliding between their legs as he ran his palm along the length of himself, back and forth. When he spoke, his words were slurred.

“I am well,” he mumbled, his hand moving faster. For a moment the room was filled with nothing but the soft sounds of Lucy feeding: with the howl of the wind whistling under the shuttered windows as Glorfindel held himself and shook. There was silence from beyond the door, dragging on to the point where it seemed like Aearmarth had gone away, but he spoke again.

“My lord.” the seneschal said. “A servant of Fingon is here to speak with you. He wishes to escort you to the King.”

Lucy rolled her naked hips forward. Glorfindel groaned into her neck. Everything between them was symbiosis, and Lucy was so wet for him she was dripping. They were two halves of a whole.

“Tell him I will come later.” Glorfindel muttered into her shoulder, his breathing harsh. Aearmarth seemed undeterred.

“He wishes to see you **now**.” the seneschal insisted. There was another pause, where once more all that could be heard was the howl of the wind. Then he added, “the Lady Lucy, too. Aeloth has gone to fetch her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	34. Fingon, Err Perception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised August 27, 2016

When Aearmarth revealed that Aeloth was going to fetch Lucy to bring her before the King, Glorfindel tried to send her away.

“I am sorry,” he whispered once the seneschal left, but there was panic to his tone, too. The ellon’s right hand fiddled with the front of his leggings as he sought to cover himself, his left pushing delicately against Lucy’s chest. He tilted his head to the side to try to remove her lips from his throat, but it only served to give Lucy better access. “I am sorry, we must… we must stop. We will finish later.”

But Lucy was able to feel his need, even as he sought to drown it; she was able to feel the hardness of him between her legs and the rapid beating of his heart and the way his breathing was ragged. She was so hungry – so desperate to feed – that she merely hummed into his neck and drank deeper. Lucy loved him; she loved the taste of him. She loved the way their bodies fit together. The ellon took care of her, and Lucy knew he would take care of their children, too. _It’s_ _time_ , something told her, and he was perfect. She’s chosen him for the task.

Only it wasn’t time. It wasn’t _yet_. They had to keep her condition a secret. Lucy sensed Glorfindel’s shudder when she thought of children; she heard him groan and felt him bury his face against her throat when she imagined him filling her up. He made no other move towards her, however, even though she was open and waiting for him. She wanted him to take her. She kept on drinking.

“I am sorry.” Glorfindel chanted in Quenya, gripping both her arms as he tried to pry her off his neck. Lucy clung on like a leech. “Nimeleth, I am so sorry, you must… _ah_! You must go back _._ ” His pushing increased, his slim fingers digging into her narrow shoulders. Just when it seemed like he’d be unable to free himself without ripping his jugular, Lucy let go. Her lips left his neck with a soft _pop,_ her mouth open and eyelids heavy.

Glorfindel tried to push her off him, but Lucy was bloated with blood and mad with lust, unable to think through her hunger. She leaned forward and ran her hands up his throat, kissing him on the lips instead.

Without thought Glorfindel reciprocated, instinctual and almost mindless. His mouth opened, his tongue sliding along hers. Instead of pushing her away, the hands on her shoulders yanked her nightgown past her elbows, ripping the fabric in the process. Lucy’s large breasts sprung free.

“Lucy,” Glorfindel said. He pushed the two of them to the floor, his hands fumbling with her nightgown as he freed her arms from the fabric. The chair clattered onto its side behind them. “Lucy, please, we must stop –” But neither of them wanted to, and the ellon was practically tearing the dress from her body.

Lucy felt the cool stone floor, hard and smooth against her back. She felt the nightgown bunching up around her navel, and Glorfindel’s hands; large and slim as they cupped her breasts, his lips on her throat as his golden hair tumbled around them. Lucy sighed as the ellon ran a thumb across her nipple, arching her spine and tilting her head. She didn’t mind that Glorfindel was still wearing clothes, nor did she mind if they did it on the floor like animals. She just wanted to touch his skin; she wanted to feel the flexing of his muscles along his back as he fucked her.

“Lucy,” Glorfindel gasped. There was blood on his lips, his hand sliding along her thigh. Lucy tried to free the ellon from his robes while he kissed her, but he was wearing so many layers she only managed to undo the upper clasp of his tunic. It fell open, slipping down his porcelain shoulder.

“Laurëfindil,” Lucy said, her small fingers scrabbling around his neck as she searched for purchase. The ellon’s head was between her breasts now, his lips on her skin as he kissed the jellied sides of them.

“I missed these,” he murmured, kissing her breasts again. His mouth was warm. “Missed the taste. Missed doing this with you.” Glorfindel’s hand was on her knee, now; Lucy’s foot in the air as he pinned her leg all the way back to her shoulder.

“Laurëfindil, _please_.” she all but sobbed. Lucy could feel the tip of him pressing up against her slickened entrance; she could feel the **size** of him, hot and thick, and didn’t know how he’d fit inside her, but she wanted him to. She was so desperate to be filled she couldn’t bear it.

Then as if she’d burned him, Glorfindel pulled back. He pulled back and began chanting _no_ , shaking his head and trembling all over as he tried to peel away from her. Lucy let out a cry of protest. She reached for him, but he easily avoided her hands. Oh god, _no, no,_ _no,_ she’d been so close, and she needed him –

“No,” Glorfindel said in Quenya. He was still shaking his head, completely uncoordinated and sliding off of her as if he were drunk. The ellon barely managed to brace his hand against the floor to stop his fall, his long fingers spreading wide to steady himself. “No, I cannot. I cannot, it is too much –”

“Laurëfindil,” Lucy begged, and she was so overcome by lust that she could barely say his name; she couldn’t even pull down her nightgown or close her legs, her naked breasts heaving with shallow pants as her insides ached with desire. She could see glimpses of _him_ , amongst all the layers of too-big clothing; she could see his shaft, hard and erect, and it made her near mindless at the thought of having it inside her. “Laurëfindil, **please** –”

“ **No**.” he swore, and then he was trying to stand and failing comically, his gaze physically averted from hers as he did everything in his power not to stare at the space between her legs. The ellon’s eyes were glowing blue, his face stark white with panic. “No. You are too young, you are not thinking clearly. I cannot – we are not the same, I cannot – ai Illúvatar, the scent.” He bowed over, his back arching in pain. “You need to leave,” he gasped. “Lucy, please, you must –”

“Laurëfindil –”

“LEAVE ME!” he commanded, his voice uncomfortably loud. Lucy saw cobalt eyes glowing like fire; she saw a disheveled looking elf with wild blond hair and too-sharp ears, his pants undone and his shoulders shaking with tremors. There was neon blue seeping across Glorfindel’s cheeks akin to veins, in the same manner as when he’d killed the baramog, and later on when he’d found out that Maeglin had hit her. He was alien in that moment, and Lucy’s brain registered him as _inhuman_. Even still, she loved him. She wanted and needed him, and she didn’t care that they were different. Only when Glorfindel spoke, a strange thrumming sensation came to life in her blood.

Like a switch had been flipped, something took over. Lucy sat up and closed her legs, tugging her ruined nightgown closed around her shoulders. She staggered to her feet, making her way over to the hidden entrance behind the golden tapestry. When she did she pulled aside the drape to push open the door. As if in a dream, Lucy saw herself reach up to wipe away Glorfindel’s blood. It was like she was trapped inside her own body without any control over it, while simultaneously looking down at herself from above. _No_ , her mind screamed _, no, go **back**_ , but she couldn’t. The door made a soft _click_ as she stumbled into the hallway and closed it behind her. Lucy kept walking.

Her steps were erratic as she made her way up the stairs, her hand braced to the wall and the other clutching her nightgown across her front. She didn’t know what to do, or where she was going. All she knew was that she had to leave because Glorfindel had told her to, and she had to stay safe. When Lucy came to – snapped out of her trance by a pair of hands shaking her by the shoulders – she found herself wandering outside her bedroom chamber. Aeloth was in front of her, her left hand to her shoulder and the right to her forehead. Instinctively, Lucy leaned into her touch. She wanted people to touch her, and the need to feel another’s skin on hers was voracious. She didn’t even care that it was Aeloth.

“Lucy?” the elleth asked. There was no anger to her tone this time: just worry, and lots of it. Her hand left her forehead to feel the flush of her cheeks. “Lucy, why are you outside your room? What happened to your nightgown? Are you hurt?”

“I was hungry.” Lucy mumbled, closing her eyes. Then she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to say that, but already Aeloth’s expression was darkening. The elleth leaned forward, sniffing at Lucy’s neck. Almost immediately she reared back and cursed in Quenya, hastily wrapping her arm around Lucy’s shoulders as she guided her into the room. Past the bed they went, over to the tub. When they reached it Aeloth immediately set her on a stool and drew a bath. Lucy remained seated as the elleth filled the wooden basin with water, staring dead-eyed and slack jawed towards a spot on the wall. She was aware of the wetness between her legs, how the slickness of it coated her thighs and the way her nipples had hardened. When Aeloth stripped her of her nightgown, the elleth made no comment about her appearance. Lucy let the elf position her as she pleased, docile as a doll while Aeloth scrubbed at her back. Still the former nanny seemed dissatisfied, and she kept sniffing at the air. Every time she did, she cursed and scrubbed Lucy’s skin harder.

“No,” the elleth was muttering under her breath as she scrubbed at her back. “No, not now –”

Lucy rested her head against the side of the tub. She felt so high she could barely breathe, much less think, and the only reason she wasn’t getting up to find Glorfindel was because he’d specifically told her not to.

“Am I still going to see the King?” she asked. Immediately Aeloth’s ministrations came to an abrupt halt.

“How do you know about that?” she demanded. It was only then that Lucy realized that Aeloth hadn’t mentioned the outing; **Aearmarth** had, and she wasn’t supposed to know about it yet.

When she said nothing more Aeloth returned to scrubbing her back, but her movements were stilted. Afterwards, the elleth pulled her out of the tub to towel her down. The former nanny covered her in layer after layer of thick shapeless robes that were meant for lounging – almost as if she were trying to hide the shape of her body beneath – and she left her hair long and undone, without braids or ribbons. Lucy wasn’t all there in the head, but she knew something was amiss when Aeloth grabbed a jar of cream off her dresser. The elleth applied the sweet-smelling paste in copious amounts over her neck and shoulders, almost as if she were trying to hide another scent below.

“Why are you putting on so much?” Lucy asked. She sucked in a shuddering breath, her eyelids fluttering as she tried to stay lucid. There was a butterfly-like sensation deep in her belly, and the wetness between her legs was back. It wasn’t from the bath.

“You have a fever,” the elleth explained as her hands moved up, smoothing the sweet-smelling paste along either side of her neck. When she was done Lucy rose unsteadily. Aeloth wrapped her arm around her waist, the other gripping her hand as she led her down to the landing.

By the time they reached the front entrance, Lucy’s lust had faded enough for her to understand where they were going. She hadn’t been to the Tower of the King – where Fingon was staying – in over a month, but maybe, just maybe, she could use the impromptu visit to her advantage. The books. She had to study the books to figure out what was happening, and what had changed. She needed the books to keep herself safe. Except Lucy hadn’t seen the manuscripts since the incident with Belor, and she was only beginning to realize just how odd this lack of access was. Normally she visited Tommy’s books – with Idril’s supervision – several times a week, but maybe the distance was because of her illness, or the snow. The storms were brutal in Gondolin.

“Why haven’t I been there?” Lucy asked Aeloth, tripping over a step and swaying wildly. “Why haven’t I been back to The Tower? I miss Idril.” She was telling the truth. Lucy had been so consumed with blood and the need to feed that she’d sort of forgotten about the princess, but she still wanted to see her. Aeloth’s expression remained deeply unhappy.

“Laurëfindil has decided it is too strenuous.” she said. From the way her words were clipped, it was clear there was more to the situation that she wasn’t telling. “It is best if you stay home.”

“Oh.” Lucy said. Again she felt something queer stir in her gut; the sensation of butterfly wings beating in her belly, only this time the notion was less than pleasant. The fluttering almost felt like a warning.

Glorfindel was waiting for them at the entrance, along with Morwen and their guards. The ellon did not look well. He was white as bleached parchment and bundled in too many layers of fabric. His golden hair was tumbling down his front in a haphazard mess, his fur-lined hood pulled up and a thick woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. When Lucy approached Glorfindel turned to look at her. Immediately the ellon’s eyes grew dark. Aeloth glared at him, stepping between the two to hide Lucy from view. One of the guards sniffed at the air, while another clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword, but neither of them said anything. Glorfindel looked away. He made no move to help them.

With flustered movements Aeloth took Lucy’s cloak from a waiting servant and began to dress her. As she did, Morwen quickly stepped forward to support Lucy as she stood. The woman was bundled in layers of grey fur and purple fabric. When she spoke to Lucy, her tone was soothing, but her words were concerned.

“How are you feeling, Sweetness?” she asked, her hand splaying against her lower back. Lucy remained pliant in her grasp, keeping her gaze trained to the floor. Aeloth did up the front of her cloak.

“M’fine.” she whispered. She could feel Glorfindel’s eyes on her again, his gaze potent and inescapable. Their near-separation was like torture, and Lucy wondered if the entire ordeal felt like torture for him, too.

“If anyone asks, you must tell them she has a fever.” Aeloth told Morwen, speaking low so her voice didn’t echo. Lucy couldn’t see the other woman’s face, but she could hear the anger in Morwen’s tone as she spoke to the elleth in Sindarin.

“She should not be doing something so strenuous. Not in her condition. It will put too much strain on the bab-”

“You will tell them she has a **fever**.” Aeloth said. There was open hostility in the elleth’s tone, and it was only then – when Lucy was coming down off her blood-fueled high – that she realized that Aeloth and Morwen didn’t like each other. The older woman didn’t like any of the elves, but there seemed to be something personal about her animosity towards Glorfindel’s nanny. Still she said nothing, and soon Aeloth left. It wasn’t until Morwen was helping her towards the door – with Glorfindel and the others leading ahead – that Lucy asked her about it.

“Why do you hate each other?” she said. She was blunt with her words and tactless as always, but Morwen leaned in close and answered all the same.

“It is nothing to concern yourself with, Sweetness.” the woman demurred. “The Lady Aeloth and I simply have different ideas on the best way to raise you.” She spoke no more on the matter.

Outside the weather was bitterly cold, and the snowdrifts were deep. Although it wasn’t storming the sky was still dark with clouds. Lucy wasn’t ready for the cold, despite the layers of clothes she was wearing, and neither was Morwen. Immediately both of them began to shiver. Glorfindel caught the movement, but he didn’t move towards them. Lucy saw him clench his hands at his sides before he turned around and continued walking, his pace quicker than before.

Lucy didn’t understand why the elf lord was trying to avoid her. She didn’t, and was hurt by the distance, but before she could follow her train of thought Morwen was ushering her forward.

Glorfindel led their party through a winding area of the courtyard where the drifts were not so deep. Soon they reached the gatehouse by the main doors. It was a simple structure; a two-story building with arched open windows and a steeply pointed roof. Inside the outpost, the snow was so shallow that Lucy could actually see the floor. For a moment she thought they would continue into the street, but instead Glorfindel crouched down, pressing his palm flat to the ground just in front of him. Like the secret garden behind the wall, the cobblestone gave way to slide to the side with a _clunk_. Inside there was a set of rough-cut stairs leading down into the darkness. Lucy shouldn’t have been surprised by the tunnel – the Noldor loved stone, and they loved carving into it – but she was.

“Where does it go?” she asked. As she did Glorfindel disappeared inside. Morwen shrugged, helping Lucy down the first few steps. The tunnel was cold, but not too cold, the walls dry and smooth and curved. Ahead of her Lucy could see the faint outline of the elf lord, his hands moving across his front as he brushed bits of snow off his shoulders. She was so focused on him that she tripped.

Glorfindel turned, his hand automatically going around her waist and his other gripping her palm to steady her. The action was immediate and not overly familiar, but Lucy’s skin felt like it was on fire the second he touched her. From the way ellon sucked in a shuddering gasp, the sensation seemed to affect him as well.

Burning, Lucy was burning up, and instantly her need to feed and her insatiable lust came roaring back with a vengeance. Because her baby, it was time for the baby, and her body was ready. All of a sudden, Lucy had visions of him and her. The jumbled memories were not her own; fleeting sensations of Nimeleth down on all fours or laid out flat on her back with her feet in the air, her host driven to madness by the sound of her sighs and the way everything felt so wonderfully tight inside. Lucy had always so tiny beneath him, and he wanted to lift up her skirts and take her right then and there. Because her moans: the way that she sighed his name and the way that she squealed, her breasts bouncing up and down as he thrust inside her –

Glorfindel let go.

He stumbled away from her as quickly as he had in his bedroom, clutching at his tunic. Lucy couldn’t see his face very well, but she could tell he was pale as a corpse. Staggering visibly, the ellon marched off down the tunnel, his free hand braced to the wall for balance. Behind them, one of the guards lit an abandoned torch ensconced on the wall. He then moved past them to follow his recalcitrant lord. Morwen quickly stepped forward and put her arm around Lucy’s waist. In turn, the woman began leading her forward. The rest of their entourage trailed in the rear.

Lucy remained limp in the older woman’s arms, shaking and jelly-limbed. Her skin felt feverish, and she was so wet between her thighs that her legs were slick.

“Are you tired?” Morwen asked, not unkindly. It was all Lucy could do just to keep on breathing, so she simply nodded. In the dark and the gloom, the _clink_ of her shackles was oppressive. It took a good ten minutes for Lucy to start breathing normally, and by that time they were deep in a tunnel system that seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Most of it was infuriatingly directionless, but Lucy deduced that they were headed to the Tower of the King, as that was where they’d been summoned. She’d always been confused by how Gondolin managed to survive the winter, but maybe the subterranean passage shed some light on it. She just wondered why the elves didn’t use the underground network more often.

“Did you know about the tunnels?” Lucy asked Morwen in English. The older woman shook her head.

“No,” she said tightly. “The elves never tell me anything.” Left unsaid was the fact that no one ever told them anything because neither of them was allowed to leave. Up ahead, Glorfindel staggered. Lucy’s heart clenched with worry at his sign of visible weakness.

Down the narrow tunnel their party continued, traveling in single file. When they finally reached the end of the corridor, Lucy’s hunger had faded enough for her to think clearly, but the lust was still present. Glorfindel didn’t look at her as they emerged from the corridor into the Tower itself; nor did he look their way when they stepped into the servant’s landing, where Lucy had first met the man named Belor. Once their cloaks were removed they were lead to the room where Lucy had seen Turgon and Fingon arguing, only this time they entered onto the first floor.

In the chamber they found the two kings, along with half a dozen of Fingon’s guards. Glorfindel didn’t look at her as they entered the chamber, but Lucy could feel the anxiety wafting off of him, as thick and heady as her own. Turgon raised his head as they approached, and Glorfindel immediately prostrated himself, bowing low with his hand placed over his heart.

“My King.” he said. Turgon simply frowned and turned on his heel, walking towards the back entrance in a swirl of navy blue robes. He shut the door behind him with a _thud_.

Glorfindel stared after the Noldo prince with blatant confusion, his gaze wide and doe-like. Fingon remained seated in his low-backed chair. He was dressed all in blue again, his long legs stretched out in front of him. When he saw their party he smiled, but there was something off about the gesture. There was a goblet of wine held in his hand.

“Laurëfindil,” he said in Quenya, swishing his wine around the circumference of his glass. “How have you been?”

Glorfindel visibly flinched at the sound of his name, but he turned to the High King regardless.

“Well, my Liege.” he said, kneeling lower, but he didn’t look it. His expression was brittle.

“No orcs in the mountains, I take it?”

“I have been attending to other duties, my Liege. I will return to my responsibilities shortly.”

“Yes.” Fingon admitted, bringing the goblet to his lips. “I have heard.” There was an uneasy pause in the conversation, where Glorfindel remained kneeling and Fingon remained in his chair. Lucy stayed where she was, supported by Morwen.

“You have taken my offer into account, I assume.” the High King said. It wasn’t a question.

Glorfindel’s blank expression grew decidedly queasy. _What proposition?_ Lucy wanted to ask, but remembered at the very last moment that both she and Glorfindel had decided to keep her knowledge of Quenya a secret. The less the others thought she knew, the better.

“I have… I… yes.” Glorfindel said. His hands flexed into fists at his side.

“Hnh.” the High King said into his wine as he took another sip, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe him. Fingon turned to Lucy, canting his head as he eyed her. The ellon had the most penetrating gaze when he actually chose to focus, and the strength of it was stifling, the blue of his irises unnaturally clear. The King’s gaze traveled over her form in a languid manner, his attention lingering here and there.

“Your name is Lucy?” he asked in Sindarin.

Lucy nodded _yes_ in confirmation, terrified of giving too much away. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Glorfindel fidgeting. When she answered him, Fingon’s expression softened into a friendly smile. He raised his hand to wave her closer.

“Come.” he said, pointing to the chair just in front of him; it was empty of all except for a blanket. “You must sit. You look unwell.”

“She has a fever.” Morwen said, a bit too quickly. Fingon’s jaw twitched. He blinked several times, his gaze darting in the older woman’s direction as if just realizing that she was there. When he recovered his smile returned, but it was colder.

“Of course.” he demurred. The High King continued to hold his hand in Lucy’s direction. Lucy looked towards Glorfindel, seeking his permission to move. Immediately the High King picked up on her deference to the elf lord. As Glorfindel turned his head to meet her gaze, Fingon spoke again.

“I told you to sit, my Lady.” His tone was still friendly, but firm. Lucy didn’t dare delay his command any longer.

Swallowing heavily and trying not to stare, Lucy let Morwen lead her over to the chair. Fingon watched the way she gingerly settled herself into the low-backed seat, eying her over the rim of his goblet. Once she was seated Morwen stepped back to stand beside Glorfindel. Fingon set his goblet down on a nearby table and laced his fingers together.

“You can leave now,” he said in Quenya, his voice chipper and mood bright. At first Lucy thought he was speaking to her. A moment later she heard an exclamation of alarm from Glorfindel. It was soon followed by the shuffle of heavy robes and the tip of his short sword dragging across the floor as he stood.

“My Liege –” he began, taking a step forward. Fingon turned his head to look at the elf lord. Although his expression was neutral, Lucy got the distinct impression that he was displeased at being disobeyed.

“I told you to leave.” he said.

“My Liege, please –”

“That was an order, in case you were unsure.”

Lucy didn’t have to look at Glorfindel to know that he was fidgeting; she didn’t have to hear him speak to understand that he was extremely upset. She could feel his distress like an ache in her chest, and the pain was so strong it killed the pulsing need between her legs, because Laurëfindil. _Laurëfindil was upset._ She couldn’t bear his agitation. It was so bad she almost got up to comfort him.

When Glorfindel didn’t move right away Fingon unlaced his fingers, his hands coming to rest atop the armrests of his chair. Behind him one of his soldiers shifted, his hand casually drifting down to grip the hilt of his sword. Finally Glorfindel took a step back, and then another. A second later the elf lord stormed from the room, Morwen and the guards following behind.

Once they were gone the chamber felt cavernous. Lucy shifted in her seat as Fingon watched her, listening with one ear to the sound of the fire crackling in a hearth nearby. A lone gust of wind drifted in from underneath one of windows; the whisper of it sounded mournful.

“He’s a prince, you know.” Fingon said, re-palming his goblet. “A Vanya one, through his mother’s side. He’s so far down the line of succession it would never reach him, but the claim still counts. Did he ever tell you that?”

The High King wasn’t young, but he looked young. He looked younger than Maeglin, but Lucy knew for a fact that Fingon was old enough to be Glorfindel’s father. It took her a moment to realize that the King was talking about Glorfindel’s lineage. When she did she swallowed awkwardly and looked down at her lap, clenching her hands in her dress.

“No.” she said softly, shaking her head. The elf lord rarely talked about his family, and when he did he was always selective with the facts. Glorfindel was an only child, and he’d grown up in Valinor. His relatives had been left behind during the Noldorin Exile, and he loved his mother. He never talked about his father, except to say that he’d died on the Helcaraxë.

“The Lord Glorfindel seems very concerned with your health.” Fingon hedged.

Lucy swallowed again. She had the distinct impression that Fingon couldn’t be bothered to care about the plight of strangers, but that he was dangerous when he did. On several occasions Glorfindel had warned her in an off-handed manner about the Noldorin prince; the High King’s word was law, and once he set his mind to something very few could oppose him. They had to be cautious.

“He is like his cousins,” the elf lord had said. He remained tight-lipped about the rest. Only Lucy had ears, and she was all too aware of the gossip around the keep. _Brave_ , the servants called Fingon: a soldier prince who had been fighting for centuries. Headstrong as his infamous father, and lacking in fear, but Fingon was like the Fëanorians in that he took an inordinate amount interest in anything that had a backbone. He liked a challenge. The combination was deadly and notorious.

“I am his ward.” Lucy finally settled on, in answer to the High King’s statement. She hoped her words would suffice.

Fingon grinned at her in a crooked sort of way, his slender fingers _tap-tap-tapping_ against the side of his goblet. His skin was the same shade as Glorfindel’s, but appeared ghostly because of his hair.

“Is that all?” he said. Lucy was too nervous to deign him an answer, and was fairly certain she’d already incriminated herself through her appearance alone. The ellon leaned forward, his blue robes rustling around him as his gold-plaited braids tumbled into his lap with a musical clatter.

“Look at me.” he commanded.

Lucy bit down on her tongue, but raised her eyes to meet the King’s. When she met his gaze Fingon’s grin formed into a genuine smile. “There.” he said happily. “That’s better. You have lovely eyes, you know. Cold and pale, like the sea.”

The hands that were fiddling with the goblet were slim and strong. They had the sort of strength required for combat; the kind the Gondolindrim had been able to avoid until recently. Lucy had never been this close to the High King – close enough she could reach out and touch him – but she was beginning to notice the little things. Fingon definitely had some Vanya in him, she decided; he had the same intensely blue eyes and milky white skin and thick wavy hair that both Glorfindel and Idril sported. The only difference between the three was that Fingon was dark while they were light.

“You are such a tiny thing,” the ellon mused, jolting Lucy out of her meandering thoughts. “I don’t understand why my brother fears such a sweet face.”

Lucy felt her hackles rise at the comment. Before she could think her actions through, she was responding.

“I’m not tiny,” she spat. Lucy knew she was in comparison to the elves, but the way the Noldor were constantly rubbing it in her face was beginning to grate on her. Fingon _hmmed_ and looked down at his goblet, examining the contents.

“Not so sweet, then.” he corrected, his nails tapping dully against the polished metal. When he returned her gaze, his eyes were dark. “Still lovely, though. I can see why he’s so enamored with you. It will be a problem, I think.”

This time Lucy knew whom he was talking about.

“I’m his ward,” she repeated.

“In name only.” Fingon said. The lack of amusement to his tone was sharp.

Clenching her hands, Lucy looked down at her lap. She bit her bottom lip and fought the urge to flee. This was the King. The _High_ King of the Noldorin Exiles, and their ultimate authority in Middle-earth. If Fingon decided to do away with her, no one could stop him. Glorfindel would try, but he would fail. She had to remember that.

“I have heard from my vassal Belor that you cannot speak the Common Tongue.” Fingon revealed. When Lucy didn’t answer, he added “the Edain, from the House of Hador. Do you remember him?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

Lucy’s lips formed into a frown. She avoided Fingon’s gaze, but she could feel his eyes on her.

“They never taught me how to speak it.”

“Who never taught you how?”

Lucy’s expression twisted further. “Glorfindel.” she admitted. “And… and his house.”

Fingon leaned back in his chair, balancing his chin between his forefinger and thumb in a deceptively casual way. “You know about the war,” the ellon said. It wasn’t a question.

“Y-yes.” Lucy confirmed, but her words were stunted with fear. Fingon was calm. Too calm, and extremely self-assured. He knew something. Lucy could feel it.

“It is a difficult era we live in.” the High King admitted, his tone disconcertingly flippant. “Morgoth’s lieutenants are advancing through our territory, burning everything as they go. Dorthonion has been overrun for some time, but The Echoriath is completely infested with orcs just north of the valley. All that’s protecting this city is a mountain or two. Did your Lord _Laurëfindil_ tell you that?”

Lucy shook her head. Her eyes watered. “No.” she admitted. Glorfindel hadn’t stated the situation in so blatant of terms, but she had guessed. To hear her worst fears confirmed was sickening.

“How does that make you feel?” Fingon asked. Lucy clenched her hands even harder, her knuckles popping beneath her skin with the tension.

“Scared.” she admitted. She didn’t know why they were talking about this. She hated it.

“As it should.” the High King agreed, taking another sip of his wine. His words were simultaneously sympathetic and cold. “Horrible things will befall this city, if its defenses are breached; awful things, especially to someone as lovely as you. Orcs are savages.”

“I understand.” Lucy whispered, feeling faint. She really did. She knew what Fingon was talking about.

“I have people to protect,” the ellon said, setting down his wine. “Many people, including your own. The House of Hador has been invaluable to me, but our relationship is strained. No one wants Dor-Lómin to go the way of Dorthonion, but resources are scarce. To have an adaneth such as yourself living in a Noldorin house without your people’s permission is going to cause me problems. Excessive problems, and I **detest** dealing with petty concerns when there are more important matters to attend to. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Yes.” Lucy nodded. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t from the House of Hador, but had a feeling it would make the situation worse, so she simply lowered her gaze.

“My little brother is like a mule.” Fingon groused, peering into his near-empty goblet with consternation. “A pigheaded one, with a penchant for silk. Do you have any brothers?”

“No.”

“Sisters?”

“No.”

“More’s the pity, then. Brothers can be difficult, but yours would have protected you. You are too delicate to fight.”

“Oh.” Lucy whispered. She didn’t know what else to say. Fingon swished the last bit of wine around the bottom of his goblet.

“Turukáno is stubborn,” he continued. “He will not budge until his robes are on fire, but he is still family, so I asked him about you, you see. I wanted to know why he would risk such an important alliance to let one of his lords keep an adaneth like a pet. You are beautiful, but beauty means nothing when it comes to this war. So why not return you to your people? You are not of our kind, nor do you have any ties to us, so why keep you cloistered away? We could have solved this problem quietly, without fuss. That was my thinking. And do you know what he said to me?”

Lucy shook her head.

“He said **no**.” Fingon spat, putting his goblet on the table beside him with a _clack_. He sounded comically put out. “But he told me the truth. Eventually.”

The High King knew about her, and what she was. He had to. Lucy felt sick to her stomach.

“Do you like living in the House of the Golden Flower?” Fingon asked, leaning towards her. Lucy nodded, forcing herself not to lean away in return.

“Glorfindel takes care of me,” she said. She didn’t know where Fingon was going with the train of thought, but she knew it was important that she make that point clear. “He’s very kind.”

“He likes to spoil things. Pretty things. I’m told it comes from his mother.” Fingon quipped. “Tell me – do you remember living anywhere else, before Laurëfindil’s estate?”

Lucy shrugged, picking nervously at the threads on her gown. She avoided the High King’s gaze.

“No.” she said. The more she pretended that she’d had no life before this, the better off she was. “I remember the dungeons in the city. I was put there first. It… it was cold.”

Fingon’s gold-plaited braids _clinked_ as he tilted his head to observe her. “I suppose it must be nice, living in a Vanyarin house.” the ellon mused. Lucy looked up at that.

“Are you Vanya?” she asked him before she could stop herself. She shouldn’t have said it, but the similarities between Glorfindel and the King were too close. Fingon leaned back in his chair and let out a laugh, his smile wide.

“You can tell?” the ellon said. There was an overt casualness to his posture that put Lucy on edge: an unconscious sort of grace that hid the sharp edges beneath. “My grandmother,” Fingon explained when Lucy spoke no further. He looked towards his feet, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. “The link is weaker than it is in the House of the Golden Flower, but Vanyarin features stick around for some time. The blood is strong.” Fingon looked up then, drumming his fingers against the armrests of his chair as he eyed her.

“I knew his father,” the High King admitted. “The Lord Glorfindel’s, that is. He was an excellent soldier and very loyal, but terribly dour. Laurëfindil was such a lonely, miserable child. I felt pity for him.”

“What?” Lucy stuttered, thrown by Fingon’s honesty and horrified all at the same time. A second later the ellon was switching topics so rapidly that she was left reeling in shock.

“So,” the High King began. “Turukáno tells me you’re a servant of Sauron’s.”

It was all Lucy could do not to throw up right then and there.

“I’m not.” she said when she finally found her tongue. Without thinking Lucy leaned forward, grasping the High King’s sleeve in a frantic attempt to keep him seated. He couldn’t leave. Not now, when she needed to plead her case. He had to listen. “I’m not. Please, I’m not a –”

Fingon’s gaze immediately went to the fingers clutching his arm. Behind him one of his soldiers took a step forward, his hand gripping his sword.

“Not anymore.” the High King agreed, and his eyes were dark. “But that could change.” Very carefully, Fingon’s hand curled around hers. He pried Lucy’s fingers off his sleeve, his movements careful as he placed her limb back in her lap. “Tell me,” the ellon began, his palm drifting across the top of hers as he pulled away. “Is it true you’re a prophet?”

Lucy violently shook her head. “No. No, I’m not a prophet. I just had the books –”

“A seer, then.”

“I’m not a seer –”

“I’ve always wanted a prophet. It would level the field, really.”

“I’m not a prophet!” Lucy snapped, but her words came out like a sob. She was shivering. Fingon smiled and reached around her, grabbing the blanket off the back of her chair. He proceeded to draw it around her in a companionable manner, even as Lucy shrunk from his touch.

“How old are you again?” the High King asked. Lucy desperately tried to hide beneath the blanket, even as Fingon’s callused fingers fiddled with the front. Armour. He was wearing so much armor, and she was only now beginning to see hints of it, hidden beneath his outer robe. His sword was beside his chair.

“Eight-t-teen.” she stuttered, shrinking in on herself. “I just turned e-eighteen.”

“Almost to your majority, then.” Fingon inferred. Lucy knew it was a trap, but she still answered. She knew he would kill her if she lied.

“Yes.”

“Brothers should share things,” the High King said, finishing off the blanket by tucking the ends in across her front. “Especially during times of strife.” He leaned back, grabbing his goblet from the table and bringing it to his lips. Fingon seemed relaxed now, and very confident. “Mithrim is cold, but I think you will like it there. You will return with me to the capital in the spring.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in.

“Why?” Lucy choked out, rocking forward with despair. Fingon looked at her in bemused sort of manner. He gestured about the room with his goblet.

“Why not?” he asked. “A prophet-turned-traitor is an asset we desperately need. You certainly don’t belong here.”

“But I **do** belong.” Lucy insisted. She didn’t, but she knew that going with Fingon would be worse.

The High King’s eyebrow cocked with what could have passed for as annoyance. His blue eyes were sharp. “What is your age?” he reminded her.

“Eighteen.” Lucy repeated miserably.

“And are you to your majority?”

“No.”

“Are you wed?”

Lucy didn’t know what that had to do with it, but she shook her head all the same. She felt like she was on the verge of tears.

“No.”

“Then why should I allow you to stay here?” demanded the King. “You have no ties to hold you, nor the independence to do so. My authority supersedes my brother’s.”

“Don’t take me away.” Lucy pleaded, sniffling loudly and rubbing at her nose. Even though she’d wanted to leave Gondolin for some time, the thought of being separated from Glorfindel filled her with terror. She couldn’t live without him.

“Should I send you to the House of Hador, then?” Fingon asked, his near-empty goblet dangling loosely from his fingertips. “Belor has been demanding it quite insistently. I’m loath to part with such a gift, but I’m inclined to grant his request, if only his people will give me more soldiers.

“But I’m not from the House of Hador.” Lucy admitted, her lower lip wobbling as she tried not to cry. “I have no House. I want… I want to stay with Glorfindel. He’s my… I belong **there**."

Fingon’s expression was cold as he spoke.

“He’s just borrowing you, my dear. You’re Turukáno’s ward, not some elf lord’s wife, and what my brother owns is beholden to me. A prophet is too valuable a resource to waste locked up in some mountain estate like a golden bauble.”

Lucy’s heart raced. She wanted to vomit.  Without Glorfindel to protect her the Noldorin prince would discover everything. If he caught her drinking blood, the High King would kill her for sure. Nine days. Nine days was the absolute longest she could go without feeding, and Fingon thought she was Sauron’s prophet.

_Lucy_ , someone crooned. She recognized the voice. Lucy tried to ignore it, but the words wouldn’t dissipate. Her shackles felt hot.

“It’s not my choice,” she said shakily, meeting Fingon’s gaze head on. She needed to be brave. Her life depended on it. “I don’t… I don’t **consent**.”

“We never have a choice.” Fingon said, and for a moment the ellon’s expression was sad. Frantically Lucy tried to think of what she could say to make him stop; the words she would need to buy herself more time. Fingon was the High King, but he still had his flaws.

_My uncle worships the ground Maitimo walks on_ , Idril had said, and in a rush of remembrance the princess’ words came tumbling back to her. _He does not care if he is mad._

“Maitimo would not approve.” Lucy blurted out. It was the only thing she could think of in her haste to save her skin.

A sharp _crack_ sounded. The stem of Fingon’s goblet snapped between his fingertips. His posture went rigid, his eyes lighting up like beacons as neon blue began seeping down his cheeks.

“ **What**?” He said. Immediately Lucy shrunk back in alarm.

“Maitimo,” she stuttered, trying to avoid his mounting fury, but Fingon was standing, knocking over his chair as he reached for her. Perhaps she had said the wrong thing. “M-Maitimo, Maitimo will not like –”

“How?”

“I didn’t –”

The High King’s hand was on the front of her dress, yanking her up.

“ **How do you know Nelyo?** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Adaneth - (mortal) woman
> 
> Nelyo - The shortened form of Maedhros’ father name, Nelyafinwë


	35. Crucible

He had cold hands, Lucy thought.

Like ice they were – as one gripped the front of her gown and Lucy gripped his in turn – smooth and frigid, his fingers hard and unyielding. It was fitting in a morbid, surreal sort of way. Fingon came from the north, and he **was** of the north; the High King who had arrived in Gondolin on the winds of winter, like a bad omen bringing even worse news. He was the Noldorin prince that had helped lead his people across the Grinding Ice, the lord of a cold land perpetually shrouded in mists. Lucy had never been to Mithrim, but she’d heard about it from Idril, and she thought about it now. She thought about how the Noldorin capital suited Fingon, and the way he hid things. Meandering, like the mists themselves. The chill took everyone in the end.

Fingon’s fingers twisted in the front of her dress, his other hand twitching as if he planned to reach for a sword. He didn’t grab his weapon, but his grip on her gown was strong enough to lift her out of her chair. Lucy’s seat clattered to the floor behind her, her hands flying to his. Her tiptoes scraped against the floor as she struggled to stay standing. Fingon was much, much taller than her, and so much stronger. She couldn’t overpower him. Eyes glowing, his gold-plaited braids clattering noisily around his head, Fingon leaned over and into her. Lucy could feel the tension that coiled itself along his arm. The _peakiness_ to his complexion was stark.

“How do you know Maitimo?” Fingon spat. It was like stepping on a bear trap, the difference between The High King’s meandering wiles and spiking anger was so abrupt. Lucy gripped the wrist that was gripping her dress and _wrung_ it, trying to get him to drop her as she sagged in the ellon’s hold. She coughed.

“I d-don’t –”

“How do you know Maitimo?!”

Lucy’s knees wobbled and gave out beneath her. Before she could collapse Fingon’s other arm went around her back, his fingers splaying against her spine. The gesture was an automatic thing, full of panic. Lucy scrabbled at the hand on the front of her dress, her palms pressing against his to try to lift it, but the ellon was akin to stone.

“P-please. I didn’t do anything.” Lucy begged. There were tears in her eyes as she pawed weakly at his wrist, but even though she was afraid, another feeling was building too. A _hot_ feeling that had nothing to do with lust, long-dormant and bubbling to the surface. Her chest was pressed to the King’s, his fingers twisting in the back of her shapeless gown. “P-please, I’m n-not his servant –”

“You know,” Fingon began.  “Nelyo keeps to himself these days. And I can only think of one reason why someone as young as yourself would know him by **that** name.” There was a tremor to his voice. A strange _humming_ filled the air, too. It was a twisting sensation beneath Lucy’s breastbone that sent her nerves a-flutter, because it was all too familiar in a horrible sort of way. _Mairon_. Lucy knew what Fingon was talking about. She’d read about Maedhros’ captivity, and Idril had talked about it too.

Frantic with terror to the point of numbness – but also _angry_ – Lucy tried to shake her head _no_ and break free, but the King’s grip was too strong. Lucy’s skin felt hot. The ringing in the air had become a droning _,_ and Fingon’s eyes were darkening as he held her.

“No. No, it’s n-not that. I never hurt him. Please, it’s a mistake –”

“A mistake.” Fingon choked out. His fingers tightened in the front of her dress. His arm was shaking. “Are you even eighteen? Or is that an illusion too?”

“No,” Lucy said, then pleaded, her hands tightening around the High King’s wrist as she sagged further in his grip. Her legs were like jelly, and the fluttering sensation deep in her belly was back. She had to fill it. It was addling her senses, this toxic brew, and it was making her feel faint with its force. Desperately Lucy fought against the urge to collapse. “No, yes, my – m-my birthday. M-my birthday, in October, it’s not that –”

“You had better hope it’s not that.” Fingon said savagely. The Noldo was so close his plaited braids were pooling atop Lucy’s heaving breasts. “You had better hope it’s the truth, because I have been fighting this war for far too long and if you had a hand in my cousin’s capture I’m going to cut off your head and send it back to that Maia as a **gift** –”

Rage. Lucy was definitely feeling rage now. Her volatile temper had been severely dulled down, mellowed out by isolation and age, but it wasn’t vanquished. She was scared and lonely and sad - and all she wanted was to curl up in a ball and hide - but she’d done nothing wrong.

“ _Never_.” she spat. Fingon was touching her, without her permission, and Lucy was done with being manhandled. “I would never hurt him! How **dare** you. How dare you touch me –” 

“How dare I?” Fingon said. The droning sound had gotten so loud it was difficult to hear his words. Lucy could see his lips moving. She could feel the way her breasts pressed against his front and was vaguely aware of how his hand had come up to grasp the side of her face, his palm cupping her cheek and fingers spread. “How dare I? I am the **King**!” Fingon seemed enraged by something, or his lack of control over it.

“Not **my** King,” Lucy snarled before she could help herself. Immediately she regretted it. It was that old habit of hers; her inability to control her tongue at the worst possible time. She felt so empty inside, and Glorfindel wasn’t there to hold her. Fingon was going to take him away and Lucy had finally had too much. She’d kill anyone who tried to separate them. “Never my King. You haven’t earned that right –”

“I haven’t _earned_ it?” Fingon’s ghostly cheeks were flushed as he panted through his words. “I haven’t **earned** it?!”

Rank meant nothing to Lucy. It never had. Her hand went to the one that was on her face, digging into the scant skin she could find beneath his overlong sleeves. Her nails were long and drew blood. “If you want a prophet, you’ll have to earn it!”

“DID YOU HURT MAITIMO?”

“NO!”

“ _Uncle_?”

The word was spoken incredulously, the normally smooth, drawling voice cracking with shock. Fingon turned to the source. In a fit of panic Lucy slapped the High King, her hand striking against his lily-white cheek with a resounding _clap_ , and the ellon dropped her.

Her legs gave out.

Lucy collapsed, curling in on herself and coughing fitfully as she rubbed at her chest and sought to regain her equilibrium. Fingon cursed and ran a trembling, bleeding hand over his mouth, stumbling back the slightest bit. In the doorway – the door through which Turgon has disappeared – stood Maeglin. He was watching both of them with a wide-eyed, deer-like expression. There was snow dusting his hair and the fur rim of his cloak, as if he’d just emerged from outside.

“Uncle, what’s going on?” he demanded.

Fingon looked at Lucy, but it was more like he was _looking_ at her, as if he’d never seen her before. His free hand twitched by his side, his complexion sallow and his eyes saucer-like. He appeared shaken. Lucy remained on the ground, her skin flushed with fever, her gown slipping down her left shoulder to bear the top of her breasts. She wished for the knife Morwen had given her, tucked under the mattress beneath her bed. She didn’t have it on her and she needed it.

“Uncle?” Maeglin questioned a third time. Lucy glared at him, tears in her eyes. If the High King wanted her obedience – if he wanted her pliant and submissive – he was going to have to earn it, like Glorfindel before him. Her dark hair spilled in a chestnut wave onto the floor, loose and silken and thick. It shimmered in the low light. Fingon eyed it.

“You have to **earn** it,” she repeated, full of wrath. Fingon twitched at the comment. The only thing that prevented her from saying more was the very real threat of the ellon finding out what she was turning _into_ , and how often Glorfindel had pleaded with her to be careful around the High King. She knew her defiance was going to cost her.

“Uncle,” Maeglin began a fourth time, but Fingon cut him off. 

“It was a trying conversation,” he said with a sharp, snapping sort of quality. He closed his eyes as if to center himself, running both of his hands through his ornately decorated hair. “What are you doing here?”

Lucy started to gather herself up, finally tugging her dress into place over her shoulder, but it was hard. Her insides ached with emptiness, and although Glorfindel’s blood had improved her health the crippling lust was back. _It’s time_ , some disembodied voice kept chanting, and Lucy knew it to be true. It was a feeling born of primal understanding – of primal needs – and she was so close to getting what she wanted. The only obstacle was Fingon. He was in the way and she hated him for it.

Maeglin’s expression went blank when his uncle cut him off, his gaze carefully trained at some point just past the High King’s shoulder. The hearth fire crackled, the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows above.

“I am a _lord_ ,” the younger ellon said, as if that would explain it all. He was standing in the doorway, half in it and half out of it. As always he was dressed in black, his fur-trimmed clothes carefully accentuated by silver, bronze and gold. When he got no response he added, “I am your nephew. I’m allowed in here.” Even though the ellon’s voice was characteristically blank, there was a heavy note of sarcasm to it. He was speaking slower than normal, as if explaining things to a very small child.

Fingon ignored the jibe, or didn’t care.

“Did you know about this?” Fingon demanded, removing his hand from his hair to gesture vaguely to Lucy. “About what she can do?” The High King was getting agitated again, his hands clenching and re-clenching at his sides. Through eyes that were beginning to flood with tears, her head partially bowed, Lucy watched as Maeglin went stiff as cardboard, his nostrils flaring and eyes widening. He looked a bit like a rabbit who had spotted a giant predator along a ridge.

“ **Everyone** knows about her,” Maeglin began, very diplomatically, but there was an edge of concern to his voice. It was clear he was hedging his words. “She is the only adaneth in the city, beside her maid –”

“Did you know about this?!” Fingon snarled, kicking over the small table that had been beside his chair. It fell to the floor with a loud _clatter_. Maeglin stilled even further, his eyes narrowing to slits. When he spoke again he was still deferential, but noticeably less friendly.

“She was placed in my care when she first came here.” the ellon admitted. “Uncle told me to watch her.” To Lucy it sounded like Maeglin was speaking through a fog.

“So you locked her away, despite the truth?”

The implication of denying the High King a war asset was crystal clear. Fingon gripped the pommel of a dirk resting against his right hip, his slim fingers clenching. Immediately Maeglin shook his head _no_ , looking everywhere and anywhere but Lucy.

“No, it is not that. Merely when she came here, we thought – we thought that she was a servant of the enemy. A _minor_ servant.”

“You locked her away, when my lands are **burning** -”

“You must understand that the Lady Lucy is delicate. She was a child when she arrived, and we believed –”

“Get my brother,” Fingon said. He was pacing now, his golden, pointed-toe boots tapping loudly against the floor. He ran his hands through his gold plaited hair. “Get my brother and bring him here –” 

Maeglin’s reply was deadpan, his face carefully neutral. Lucy had known him long enough to understand that he was unimpressed.

“I came here **looking** for my uncle,” the ellon said. When Fingon paced by Lucy’s head, Maeglin finally turned in her direction. It was a roundabout thing where he still avoided her eyes, but she felt the intensity of his gaze nonetheless. When his attention alighted on her skin Lucy felt sad.

“You should not touch her that way,” she heard him caution. Instinctively Lucy’s fingers curled against the floor, her vision greying out as her anxiety spiked. She remembered the way _Maeglin_ had touched her. How he’d lashed out and the dull pain in her head. “She’s very fragile, and of poor health. She’s not like us. She requires… she requires delicate handling –”

“GET MY BROTHER!” Fingon roared. The younger ellon flinched, before his expression settled into something nasty. It was a mocking thing – a very _Maeglin_ thing – and Lucy knew that he’d finally been pushed too far, too.

“Forgive me, Uncle.” Maeglin sneered. “But I cannot bring him to you if I do not know where he is.”

Fingon cursed in Quenya. He waved his hand at one of the few remaining guards, gesturing towards the door. “Get my brother,” he repeated, continuing to pace. The guard immediately turned towards the exit, slipping past Maeglin in a flutter of silver and blue. “Get my brother and bring him here –”

Maeglin tilted his body to the side to let the guard pass, but he did not move. He kept on staring at his uncle.

“Is there anything else you need, my King?” His words were overly formal.

“Wine,” Fingon quipped, snarling and impatient as he briefly picked up his broken goblet resting on the floor. He looked at the empty contents, then made a scoffing sound and tossed it back onto the ground with disgust. “More wine would be good.”

Maeglin’s sneer grew deeper. Lucy glared through her tears and refused to acknowledge them both.

“I shall fetch a servant, then.” Maeglin said, raising his hand. Fingon clicked his tongue, making what looked to be a very rude gesture with his hands. Words were spoken, quickly and with anger. They sounded like they were speaking Sindarin, but not quite: almost a local dialect that was different from the one that Lucy had learned. Maeglin’s expression became downright frigid once the exchange was complete.

“As you wish, then.” he said. The ellon turned and disappeared back down the hallway the same way he’d come. He moved like a walking shadow, and didn’t look at Lucy. Not once.

Lucy heard more pacing as Fingon’s golden boots tapped back and forth across the floor, the _shiffing_ sound of his heavy blue robes layered atop his chain-mail. A second later slim fingers closed around her upper arm, dragging her upwards. Lucy gasped.

“Earn it,” the High King muttered, keeping Lucy tucked in the crook of his arm while he leaned down to grab the fallen chair with the other. He righted it with a _clack_. “I have to earn it, you say?” There was a feral quality to his voice, but otherwise it was light and sardonic.

Lucy pushed against his chest to put some distance between them, struggling to control her more impulsive instincts. She failed. It was as if a dam had broken and all of Aeloth’s training had been for naught. The High King’s cheek was reddening where she’d slapped him.

“I am not yours.”

“Yes, yes, you mentioned that.” Fingon said, much too jovially as he dropped her back into the chair. He was furious, but he was trying to hide it. “I am, of course, a _king_. So we’ll see how that goes.” 

“– Leave him,” Lucy gasped, and she was crying openly now, despite being furious. Fingon was righting his own chair. “I **won’t** **leave him** –”

“Did he promise to marry you?” Fingon asked in Quenya, and before Lucy could think the thought through she was responding in turn. She was responding in the same tongue, because she’d been listening to Glorfindel too much.

“No, he said –” she began.

Fingon whirled on her, victorious. He leaned down so they were at eye level, grinning savagely. His expression was a queer mix of thrill and triumph and rage.

“So you **do** speak Quenya,” he said in Sindarin. Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. When she did the ellon leaned in, almost casually, his face uncomfortably close to hers, his eyelids heavy and thick eyelashes sweeping downwards. The effect of them was eerily reminiscent of Maeglin, and in that moment their familial connection was stark.

“You are fond of games?” Fingon asked.

Lucy would have taken his words as _sensual_ if it wasn’t for the barely constrained fury that was radiating off of him. She’d made a horrible mistake.

“No,” Lucy said, finally finding her tongue. She should have kept her mouth shut, because he was going to ruin her. He would ruin Glorfindel. “No, that’s not what I meant –”

“I think it was.” Fingon said. His tone was light, but his expression was not.

“It’s **not** –”

“Even kings must work for their crown sometimes.”

“Please. Please, don’t separate us –”

“What is _this_?” someone said, and Lucy looked towards the door. Fingon turned as well. He leaned away from her, straightening to his full height. Turgon was standing in the back entrance, and just behind him stood the guard, along with his seneschal. Maeglin had not returned.

It took Lucy a moment to fully register the King’s voice; to register the fact that Turgon had returned with what looked like a jumble of maps. Lucy had thought he’d left simply because of Fingon’s orders, but there was a scroll in the ellon’s hands and the seneschal behind him was carrying several more.

“Brother!” Fingon greeted in Quenya, his smile tight and voice chipper as he clapped his hands enthusiastically together, his slim fingers twisting around one another. The High King’s sleeves slipped down to reveal the tops of his milky palms, his braids clattering around his head as he tilted it like a bird. Turgon’s expression was frigid, but Fingon’s gaze was wild behind his highly controlled mask. It was a study in contrasts. “She knows about Maitimo, and she speaks Quenya. You kept this from me. I have words for you. Lots of words. They are not good.”

Turgon’s nostrils flared as he took in a breath, but he did not look surprised. He glanced briefly at Lucy before he tossed his map down onto the table – a map which almost rolled onto the floor and had to be grabbed by the seneschal before it did – after which he returned his gaze to his brother. Snapping his fingers, he pointed towards the nearest Gondolindrim standing by the opposite entrance. The elf began to advance across the room, his armor _jangling_ softly.

“I will not discuss this in front of her.” Turgon began.

“You knew,” Fingon said in Quenya, making a short, angry gesture as he pointed vaguely in Lucy’s direction. “You knew – while we were dying – and you did nothing. You knew about **Maitimo** –”

“I knew nothing about our cousin! We have been over this, in great detail. I have explained myself to you thoroughly –”

“We have not even **begun** to be over this!” The two ellons were both speaking Quenya now, and incredibly rapidly: so rapidly that Lucy found it hard to keep up. As the guard approached the King of Gondolin, Lucy thought she could hear Turgon say “Glorfindel,” but she couldn’t be sure. Fingon responded and Turgon shook his head, gesturing towards Lucy as he did so. He then adjusted his robes.

“I will not discuss this in front of her,” he reiterated in clipped, angry tones, smoothing the navy brocade along his front. “You know the reasons for this, and yet you insist on breaking them. Atar would be displeased with your persistent foolishness.” Turgon turned to the guard who had approached, speaking in Sindarin. “Get her out.”

“I am your King,” Fingon was saying, his finger pointed emphatically to his chest.

“You are my brother and a fool. You will bring our family to ruin.”

“I am your King, and you kept this from me! You kept it from me **twice**.” Then to the guard, his hand pointing in Lucy’s direction, Fingon said “she is not going anywhere unless I say so.”

“It’s not safe to keep her here.” Turgon insisted. “I will send her back to the estate where she is being held. She can be retrieved later –”

“I said she’s not going anywhere.  You will answer to **me**.”

“And you will stop being a fool.” The King of Gondolin snapped his fingers a second time. The guard bowed his head respectfully in Fingon’s direction, but went and grabbed Lucy anyways, hoisting her out of her chair. She let out a cry. Fingon still didn’t look at her. He was too focused on his brother, who was speaking.

“Always, you side with our cousins.” Turgon was saying. “Again and again, they have brought grief to our family, yet you insist on their innocence! I am sick of it! I am sick of you following Maitimo’s every beck and whim! I am your brother, not him! I will not tolerate this foolishness in my own home. I will not discuss these matters in front of **her** , nor will I entertain your flights of fancy any longer! The woman is a servant of the enemy, and a liability. It is for this very reason that I had her sequestered –”

The guard began dragging Lucy away, his hand circling her upper arm. He did not get very far. One moment there was nothing in Fingon’s hands, and the next there was a wickedly sharp, curving dirk pressed to the Gondolindrim’s throat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off his brother.

“What part of _no_ did you not understand?” Fingon asked, much too lightly. The guard said nothing. Turgon turned beet red at the threat of violence, his eyes glowing grey as he strode towards his brother.

“This is **my** city,” he said. “ **My** lands, and **my** people! What makes you think you can do such a thing?”

“BECAUSE SHE KNOWS ABOUT NELYO!” Fingon screamed, and suddenly the veneer of calm was shattering just as quickly as it had come about. Lucy could see it in the way his hand trembled as he held the blade to the guard’s throat. The Gondolindrim swallowed nervously. “SHE KNOWS ABOUT NELYO AND WHAT THEY DID TO HIM –”

Turgon reached his brother in three seconds flat. Faster than Lucy had ever seen him move he knocked the dirk from the ellon’s hand, causing it to fall to the floor with a _clatter_. The King gripped Fingon’s face, forcing his brother to look at him. When he did the guard wisely ducked away from them, dragging Lucy towards the door.

“Later,” Turgon was saying in strange-sounding Quenya, his gaze frigid but calm. Fingon seemed to be hyperventilating, his eyes too blue and his breathing too loud. “We can bring her back **later** , after we’ve talked –”

“Nelyo,” Fingon gasped. The guard reached the door, pulling a trembling, tear-stained Lucy behind him. “She knew about Nelyo –”

“We will discuss it,” Turgon promised as he griped his brother’s face between his hands. Close as they were – with their foreheads nearly touching – their resemblance was uncanny. Turgon was slightly darker, his eyes grey instead of blue, his face more patrician, but that was it. “We will discuss it, **after** she is gone.” The guard pulled Lucy through the door, forcing her to turn her head in order to keep it from being jerked from its socket. Just as she did she saw a flash of gold from the back entrance, tumbling past broad shoulders to end near an ellon’s knees in a fall of liquid gold.

_Glorfindel._ Someone had summoned him.

“She will **not** be gone.” the High King spat. Lucy couldn’t see them anymore, but knew that something else was going on between Turgon and Fingon, beyond her. The High King’s reaction was too extreme for it not to be. “I want her here –”

“After,” Turgon said. “We will fetch her from the estate **after** we have discussed these matters.”

“ _What_?” Glorfindel said, sounding highly alarmed. Then the guard was pulling Lucy further down the hallway, away from the commotion. She heard no more of their conversation.

The sound of her footsteps were loud in the corridor, and somewhat ragged. The guard dragged her forward, Lucy’s slipper-clad feet creating an uneven tempo that contrasted sharply against the ellon’s near-silent steps. There was no light in the tunnel, and the cold winter wind whistled mournfully down it. The only other sounds that could be heard were Lucy’s sniffles as she fought to see through her tears. She could feel the rush of blood beneath her skin, her breasts heaving with short, shallow gasps. Her legs felt like butter and her thighs were slick with fluid. _It’s time,_ something kept telling her, and even through her rage and frustration at the way she’d been treated, Lucy’s need to fill herself remained a constant. She was brought to tears by the fact that she’d been so close to making it a reality, only to be thwarted by Fingon.

When the two of them got to the end of the tunnel, the guard pulled Lucy into the light. The servant’s exit into the courtyard was directly in front of them. Above, the lanterns hanging from the ceiling were dim, the area cold and drafty. Fresh rushes smelling of rosemary had been strewn across the floor in their absence, and a servant was drifting past them. Morwen was sitting on an intricately carved wooden bench, and Glorfindel’s guards were standing beside her, waiting patiently for their lord.

When Lucy emerged, tearful and tear-stained, her dress falling down her shoulder, Morwen got up. When she saw the state Lucy was in, her expression became tight. Her lips pinched into a thin, angry line. The older woman said nothing, and when they were close the guard told her to take Lucy home. Morwen didn’t acknowledge him, except to tug Lucy’s dress back into place, helping her into her layered robes and cloak.

Lucy just stood there, letting Morwen fuss over her. She sniffled pitifully as she wiped tears from her face. Her shackles jangled around her wrist.

“Are you alright, Sweetness?” Morwen asked. She spoke in English, almost as if what they were saying was a secret. Lucy sniffled harder, rubbing at her eyes. The skin beneath her shackles was blackened with soot, but she didn't know where the dirt had come from. As Morwen tugged her cloak over her shoulders, she got Lucy’s long, loose hair tangled up in hood.

“I hate him,” Lucy responded in turn, but she didn’t know if it was Fingon she hated, or the situation she was in. Perhaps it was a bit of both. She hated how she had no freedom; how she wasn’t welcome in Gondolin but she wasn’t allowed to leave it either. How she had nowhere else to _go_. Lucy was perfectly content with being pampered and cloistered – she preferred it even – but it had to be **her** choice, and they weren’t letting her make it. The Noldor were only keeping her locked away while it suited them, and now they were thinking of separating her from Glorfindel after letting him take care of her for so long.

Lucy refused to let them do it. She refused to leave without _him._ She couldn’t shake the feeling that if they were parted, Glorfindel would die. She would too. She’d chosen the ellon to keep her company, in **everything** , and she wouldn’t let anyone interfere with her plans any longer.

“Who do you hate?” Morwen asked, but Lucy sniffled through her tears and didn’t answer. She was too distraught.

“I hate them,” she reiterated. “They want to separate us.” Her free hand unconsciously cradled her front as Morwen did up the ties on her cloak, stroking it through her dress. She searched for the heartbeats, but there were none there, and the flatness of her middle was horrifying. “I hate him. He says, he says… and I need –” she couldn’t finish. 

A strange light lit up in Morwen’s eyes at her confession. An inexplicable expression that veered somewhere between anger and triumph, but not quite. As she tugged on Lucy’s coat her eyes traveled ever so briefly over her body; on the way Lucy was cradling her middle, then back up to her face. She said nothing about it, nor did she acknowledge what she’d seen except to say, “it is natural, I have heard." 

Lucy was too angry to make heads or tails of Morwen’s meaning. The woman leaned in close, pulling Lucy’s hair free from her collar. “We will figure something out.” she whispered. Left unsaid was _I want to leave too_ , but they both knew she did.

“Good.” Lucy spat, too upset to be cautious. Morwen turned towards the door and wrapped her arm around her lower back. She said something unintelligible to the guards in Sindarin, who nodded and began moving forward.

“Come, Sweetness.” Morwen soothed, her fingers curling against her back. There was something oppressive about her hold that Lucy found hard to place, and definitely _odd_. Perhaps it was the fact that she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched, or that the skin beneath her shackles felt hot. Perhaps it was the anger, intermingled with the fact that Glorfindel wasn’t there to satiate her needs. Lucy was angry at everything and everyone, and it was clouding her judgement. So was the lust.

“Let’s get you to bed and get you some tea.” Morwen was saying. She gripped Lucy around her middle, taking extra care not to place any undue pressure along her front. “It will help with the cravings.”

A burning sensation made itself known between Lucy’s shoulder blades, as if someone was watching her. Morwen nodded towards the guards, and one of them stepped forward, intending to open the door. As he did so the entrance swung wide, bringing with it gusts of wind. In the doorway stood a rather short elf, dusted with snow with hair on his chin. It took Lucy a moment to realize that she wasn’t looking at an elf, but rather a man. It was Belor, the vassal from the House of Hador. He stood in the doorway, staring at her. Through her tears and her sniffling, Lucy stared back.

She hadn’t seen Belor since before the incident with Maeglin – since the ravenous need to fill herself had become a constant – and the man hadn’t changed much in that time. Belor was tall as ever, but oddly short in comparison to the elves, his blond hair mussed. His stubble was longer, his heavy robes neat beneath his large fur cloak. Lucy watched him take in her appearance. When he saw her sniffling his eyes widened with concern. He stepped through the door, his footsteps uncomfortably loud compared to that of the elves.

“My Lady,” he said in Sindarin, reaching for her. Lucy watched him approach with both wariness and relief. Belor was Fingon’s vassal, but Lucy was so desperate for human companionship that she was willing to forgive him for it. She wanted to **make** human children, to drive the loneliness away. “My Lady, do you fare well?”

Belor came within touching distance of her, his hand almost alighting on her elbow. He was stopped by one of Glorfindel’s guards.

“That is not your place,” the ellon said, his voice smooth and mellow. The elf was mostly hidden behind his armor, his mailed hand pressing flat to the center of Belor’s chest. Morwen’s eyes quickly darted back and forth between the two opponents, and Belor looked towards the elf, frowning deeply. Lucy just stood there sniffling.

“She is one of my own,” the man said. His voice was firm but polite, albeit much rougher sounding that the elves. “As a vassal of the High King, I am allowed to speak to her –” 

“You are not a member of this house –”

“It’s alright,” Lucy cut in, sniffling. The guard barely paid her a glance, but Belor did. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

“My Lady,” the guard said, finally speaking to her in a tone that booked no question. “I have strict orders not to –”

“She is the Lady of this house, and Edain.” Morwen cut in. There was a buzzing sound in the air; a dense, _ringing_ sort of pressure that was all too familiar, and Lucy wondered if she was the only one who could hear it. Her chest felt tight and her head felt fuzzy in a way that had nothing to do with her lust. “If she wishes to talk to one of her own, you should indulge her.”

The guard shook his head – as if trying to clear it from a fog – but he didn’t step aside.

“She is the Lady of the Golden –”

“Of this house, yes. You should do what’s best for her.” When Morwen spoke again Lucy felt herself grow faint, her wrist burning beneath its shackle. Belor’s expression had soured at the words _Lady of this house_ , but the guard frowned and stepped back, his movements stilted.

“My Lady,” Belor said again, turning back to her. Lucy looked up through her tear-swollen eyes, sniffling softly as she wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. “Are you well?”

“M’fine.” she said, but she really wasn’t. Lucy wanted to tell Belor everything because he was another human, but she couldn’t trust him. Not like she trusted Glorfindel. “I’m just heading back.”

“To the estate?”

“Yes.”

“I shall accompany you, then.” From the glint in Belor’s eyes it looked like he wouldn’t take _no_ for an answer. “It is becoming cold out, and you need an escort.”

Lucy knew Glorfindel would be furious – both with _this_ , and the situation with Fingon – but she was furious too, so she didn’t care. “Alright,” she whispered. She needed someone to talk to who wasn’t an elf. 

Belor gave her a terse but genuine smile, gesturing out the door. As Lucy followed him – Morwen’s arm still wrapped around her middle – she turned her head to follow the burning sensation that had alighted on her back, to see whom it was that had been staring at them.

At the top of the stairs stood Maeglin. His eyes were dark, his hair darker. The ellon’s face was ghostly white as he stood in the shadows, his expression ominous.

* * *

 

Once they were outside Belor did not offer her his arm – the guards were watching him too closely – but he did move closer, speaking in Sindarin.

“I must admit my Lady, that I had an ulterior motive for escorting you back.”

Lucy sniffled, hating how the snot was freezing to her nose and how her legs still felt like butter. The bone-freezing chill had dampened her unquenchable lust, but not by much, and she was distracted by thoughts of Maeglin. Just thinking about him – about what had happened between them – was making her wobbly in the knees. She wished she hadn’t seen him. Coming to the Tower, even though it had not been her choice, was a mistake.

“Oh?” Lucy said in return, only half paying attention. Morwen was politely pretending not to hear their conversation, as if what they were discussing was intimate. Belor nodded like Morwen wasn’t there, tugging his hood further around his face. When they’d first left The Tower they’d traveled through the public tunnels that ran beneath the city, but the guards were clearly not keen on showing Belor the secret way onto Glorfindel’s estate. Once the main tunnels had ended, they’d ascended to the city streets instead, traveling through narrow alleys where the snowdrifts were not quite so deep. It was slow going, and above them the weather was worsening, the sky dark. Another monstrous storm was whistling down from the mountains, and would arrive shortly.

“Yes,” Belor agreed seriously, nodding once. Lucy was learning that the man was soft-spoken in an oddly forceful way; not prone to raising his voice or speaking with passion, but extremely firm in his convictions and nearly impossible to sway. “You are very difficult to reach. After our last encounter I worried greatly for your health. The Noldor have been extremely good to my people, but they do not always know the ways of the Edain, nor what we need.”

Lucy agreed with that, but also knew that Belor was fishing for information; that Glorfindel’s name was hanging unspoken between them, attached to feelings of resentment and mistrust. Lucy didn’t know _why_ the man disliked him, but assumed it was because Belor was human too, and he hadn’t been allowed to see her. Glorfindel was very obviously an elf, and not one of their kind. She knew it was odd that he was interfering.

“The Lord Glorfindel takes very good care of me.” Lucy returned with utter conviction, hoping to allay the man’s fears. She didn’t like the way the other elves treated her, but she loved Glorfindel and she refused to listen to anyone else badmouth him, even another human like herself. Belor’s expression pinched into something uncomfortable. He folded his hands behind his back as they walked, his head bowing slightly as a bit of blond hair escaped the leather knot at the nape of his neck. 

“Do you like that the Lord Glorfindel takes care of you?” he asked, almost hesitantly. Lucy nodded immediately, entirely earnest without much thought at all. She wiped the last tear from her face.

“I love it,” she said. She really did. She loved being pampered, specifically by Glorfindel. She loved being waited upon hand and foot and she loved being adored. Then to clarify her statement, she added, “I need someone to take care of me.” She wasn’t very good at being independent.

Belor looked at her then. His expression was hard to read – Lucy had gotten used to discerning elvish facial tics, so human ones seemed strange and almost comical – but if she had to guess, she would have said Belor’s expression was _hungry_. He was staring at her just a bit too intently, his gaze subtly traveling over her body.

“Were you brought here against your will?” the man asked. They were nearing the estate now, the side entrance covered in leafless vines. The snow had begun to fall again, thick and fat and fluffy. Once more, Lucy nodded without thought.

“Yes,” she said. Then – realizing what she’d just implied, and knowing how the man reacted to Glorfindel’s presence – she added, “they had to, you see. I was lost and really sick. They took care of me.”

“Why were you lost?” Belor frowned deeply. “Out here, this far into the mountains? There are no Edain nearby. Only elves and orcs.”

Lucy’s face pinched into a pout. Beside them one of the guards slipped past them to open the door, his chain-mail jangling but footsteps almost silent.

“I can’t remember everything.” she hedged, hoping she wouldn’t be caught in a lie. “I hit my head, and there… there are parts missing.” It was better than saying she’d fallen from the sky like some sort of star. Lucy didn’t know how much Belor knew, or what she should tell him. Morwen remained silent beside them, her hands oddly firm around Lucy’s waist, her grip overbearing. She was listening intently.

“Do you have any brothers?” Belor asked. Lucy shook her head. “Is your father alive?” Again, Lucy shook her head _no_. They were at the door. “Are you married?”

“No,” Lucy said. Without thinking about the consequences or what her words would imply, she reiterated, “Glorfindel takes care of me.”

Belor looked at her as they stopped in front of the door. His gaze had grown even more intense, and the guard was turning to watch them.

“We have arrived,” the Gondolindrim said in terse Sindarin. It was a clear indication that Belor was supposed to leave, and quickly.

The man bowed in a courtly manner, boldly reaching for Lucy’s hand as he brought her bare palm to his lips. Belor’s lips were rough and dry, unlike Glorfindel’s; his stubble tickling the back of Lucy’s palm, his leather glove cool against her delicate skin. Still she enjoyed the contact – the **human** contact, specifically – and when Belor leaned back Lucy didn’t take her hand away from him, blinking sleepily and wide-eyed like an owl. Belor did not let go of her hand either.

“Thank you for letting me escort you, my Lady.” He said. His _thank you_ was genuine. Lucy thought that Belor might have been staring at her breasts as he rose; the tops of them were still visible beneath the rise of her dress, but she couldn’t be sure. Lucy didn’t smile, because she was still too upset, but she didn’t frown either. “It was a pleasure talking to you, and I hope to do so again in the future.”

Lucy nodded in acknowledgement. “I hope so too.”

Belor paused, his lips parting as if to say something, but he didn’t speak. His eyes briefly darted to the guard. Lucy didn’t see the ellon’s expression, but she watched as Belor’s face firmed into determination. Then he was leaning towards her, his voice low and slightly muffled by the fall of the snow. He gripped her hand harder.

“Forgive me if this is too presumptuous of me, my Lady, but before we part ways I must impress upon you that I have never seen one such as yourself. It worries me greatly that you are without husband or father or brothers to speak on your behalf. Especially in a place such as this, so far from your own people.”

The _never seen one such as yourself_ confused Lucy, but she barely blinked at the idea that she needed men to speak for her. She’d been in Middle-earth for a while now, and was well aware of how female independence was typically treated, specifically hers. Autonomy was the exception to the rule, not the norm, and precious baubles were usually hoarded. Lucy had made peace with this fact, so long as she was allowed to choose whom and where she was submissive **with**. It was what was making her miserable, day in and day out; she’d chosen Glorfindel, but the Noldor were interfering with her decision.

“Glorfindel takes care of me,” she reiterated, but Belor quickly cut her off.

“He is not one of us.”

Lucy just stared at him, looking at the man like he’d grown two heads. She didn’t understand what he was getting at. Belor watched Lucy’s expression, and when comprehension did not dawn on her, his countenance darkened with what could have been classified as frustration. The guard cleared his throat then – a firm indication for Belor to leave – and Lucy felt the man’s hand tighten around her own. He quickly leaned down and pressed another kiss to the top of her palm.

“Forgive me for leaving so quickly, my Lady. And thank you for speaking with me.” For a brief, infinitesimal second as the man touched her – skin-to-skin – Lucy was hit with a vision. It was a fantasy from Belor’s perspective; the vivid desire to see a tiny, dark haired woman dressed in navy blue standing beside him on a hillcrest, her body pressed to his and her long hair blowing free in the wind. There was a ring on her finger, a delicate veil drifting around her head. The woman was smiling.

The woman was her.

“- I shall do everything in my power to see that this situation is made right.” Belor was saying. Lucy blinked, finally coming back to the here and now.

“Oh,” she said. Then, “okay.” Belor searched her eyes for something; something that Lucy couldn’t quite place. When he didn’t find it he frowned and leaned down, kissing her palm a third time before he whirled around and walked off. The guard – who had been reaching for the pommel of his sword – relaxed, then swung the side-entrance open, waiting for Lucy to enter. Morwen readjusted her hold around Lucy’s middle, gently guiding her inside.

“What a nice man,” Morwen opined, seemingly happy, and Lucy agreed. She followed docilely, her anger dulled down by resurging lust and an overwhelming sense of urgency. Glorfindel was the one she wanted; the one she’d chosen. She had to find some way of keeping Fingon from separating them. Saving Middle-earth had been Tommy’s dream, but saving Glorfindel and creating a perfect cookie-cutter family was Lucy’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I just want to say that I am so, so, so sorry for taking this long to update. I was supposed to update last December, but due to work and lack of time it is now August, and that one-month break turned into a nearly year-long hiatus that I am very, very ashamed of. I am extremely sorry for being gone, and I apologize profusely to my readers.
> 
> Thank you to msg839 and EpitomyofShyness for beta'ing.


	36. Quickening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter revised October 8th, 2016

Morwen didn't say much when she returned Lucy to her room. When they arrived the older woman helped her out of her winter cloak and boots, humming in a happy way. Once that was done she guided Lucy up the stairs, her arm remaining wrapped around her back. Her grip was still strangely sharp and oppressive.

Aeloth was nowhere to be seen, so once they arrived at the chamber Morwen gave Lucy a bath, after which she redressed her and put her to bed. Lucy sniffled a bit, wiping the last of the tears from her face, before staring out at nothing. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She was thinking, planning. She'd had enough of the Noldor.

Morwen left for a bit. When she returned she was carrying a tray with a cup and a large pot of tea that held the strangest aroma to it. Up above from the rafters, snow drifted in, coming to land on thick wooden beams. Morwen set the tray down on Lucy's bedside table with a _clack_.

"Here," she said, pouring Lucy a cup and holding it out. "Drink this. It will promote _health_."

Lucy didn't know what Morwen meant by that, but she took the tea anyways, laying still as the older woman fed it to her. The tea tasted sweet like raspberries, and while Lucy was not fond of sweet things, it had a strangely addictive taste. Lucy was about to ask the woman for more, but Morwen was already pouring her another cup and fed it to her without prompting. When that was done she fed Lucy a third, then a fourth. This was followed by a fifth.

"Good girl," she soothed as Lucy eagerly swallowed the sixth. "Drink it up. It will make you feel better."

Morwen's eyes were strange. Glazed in the queerest sort of way, as if the woman wasn't really there inside her own body. Her tone remained calm and pleasing, her behavior just the slightest bit _off_. Lucy didn't pay much attention to it, and found herself unable to concentrate on Morwen's mannerisms for any length of time. She **did** feel better, though, and while the tea did not give her energy like Glorfindel's blood, it calmed her down immensely. It gave her focus. A pleasant tingling sensation began to run from her toes to her belly to the junction between her legs, her breasts feeling warm and heavy. Once the tea was all done – eight cups in – Morwen put the silverware down with a _clack_ , smoothing back Lucy's hair.

"Better?" she asked, and Lucy nodded, although she was secretly squirming with the urge to get up and find Glorfindel. She remained lying down, watching as the snow drifted down from the rafters. Briefly Lucy was struck with the notion that she was a bit like Rapunzel, trapped in a tower. A _willing_ Rapunzel, waiting for her prince.

"Do you need anything else?" Morwen said. Lucy shook her head.

"I'm fine," she demurred, even though she wasn't. Her family was missing.

Morwen smoothed back her hair once more and planted a kiss to her forehead. Then she left, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she was gone – her footsteps trailing down the hall – Lucy got up and threw off the covers, heading towards the secret stairwell behind the tapestry. It was time to find Glorfindel and put her plan into action, before Fingon found her again. She refused to take _no_ as an answer.

* * *

 

Lucy didn't find Glorfindel right away. He didn't return for many hours, so after waiting in his room for a bit, Lucy began to wander. Surreptitiously at first, then outright _sneaky_ , stalking the halls and loitering around the stairwell as she watched the main entrance, waiting for him to return. When he did, Lucy was all over him.

Glorfindel came home through the front door, slamming it behind him in a gust of snow. His footsteps were glaringly loud for an elf as he strode forward. From her spot in the hall – hidden between two pillars in an alcove, where Aeloth wouldn't find her – Lucy leaned forward, her forehead pressed to the balustrade and her dark hair pooling atop her knees. She crouched low and peered curiously through the bars.

The ellon was talking to Aearmarth in Quenya, his hands shaking as he jerked his gloves off. His hood was up, his golden hair tumbling down his front. Glorfindel was too far away and speaking too quickly for Lucy to discern what he was saying, but she knew it had to do with her; with what had happened between her and Fingon, and what was going to happen to the two of them in the future.

As he moved across the landing, Glorfindel spoke to another blond-haired elf. Lucy recognized him as Caragduin, the captain of the guard. Faintly, she heard the words for _horse_ and _saddle_. Caragduin nodded in return before walking past Glorfindel and Aearmarth to head outside. He shut the door, but a cold blast of snow and wind still drifted inwards.

Leaving. Glorfindel was **leaving**. Lucy just knew it, and she had to do something before he did. The ellon made a move towards the stairs, stopping at the bottom to speak to Aearmarth again. Before the elf lord could come up the landing to find her there – before Aeloth could interfere in anything she did – Lucy leaned back and fled to her room, her gait unsteady but her mind clear with purpose. She could still taste Glorfindel's blood upon her tongue, intermingling with the tea, and it made her feel alive with energy. Her breaths grew short with anticipation at the thought of what she was going to do with him.

Morwen was not in her room when she arrived, nor was Aeloth. Lucy didn't bother to search either of them out. At first she had wanted to flee the city with the elf lord in tow, using the tunnels beneath the dungeons, but she had no idea where those tunnels went. Glorfindel had already refused to vacate during the winter, with good reason, which left her nothing to barter with in the form of currency except for herself. Lucy needed a short-term solution that could become a permanent one, and she had a half-formed idea as to how to do it. Desperation was making her frenzied, her hands trembling as a result.

Stumbling over to the wooden chest at the end of her bed, Lucy threw open the box with a _bang._ She got to her knees as she began to dig through the material inside. Fingon. She had to get away from _Fingon,_ and she needed to move fast. From the rafters at the top of her room the wind whistled as the speed of the storm increased. Drifts of snow wafted inwards in gusts of white, the Noldorin lamps hanging from her ceiling clattering noisily. Ignoring the storm, Lucy dug deeper, her heavy breasts pressed to the wood as she leaned all the way in. She was looking for something to wear. Lucy didn't know _why_ she was looking for something to wear, beyond an instinctual urge that was guiding her hands, telling her she needed it. Her rejected shifts were tossed into haphazard piles on the floor, the silk pooling in pale swirls by her calves.

Finally Lucy settled on something soft and sheer; a gauzy summer nightgown that was so thin it was transparent, leaving nothing to the imagination. Quickly ripping off her current robes – the shapeless ones that were designed for winter – she tugged the summer sleeping gown over her head. The outline of her body was visible beneath it. Standing drunkenly, Lucy staggered over to the entrance that connected her room to Glorfindel's. Down the stairs she went, bumping into walls as she hyperventilated in her haste to get to him. Her loose hair streamed behind her, one hand braced to the corridor while the other clutched at her chest.

Lucy's thoughts were racing, full of jumbled notions of being abandoned. She didn't want the elf lord to leave, war or no, and she was done with waiting for the inevitable to happen. When she reached Glorfindel's quarters Lucy hit the landing at a running jolt, throwing herself against the secret door. Once it was open she tumbled inside. Lucy found Glorfindel already there, still dressed in his outdoor gear with his short sword resting on the bed beside him. He was hastily throwing together a small leather pack, shoving some unidentifiable objects inside.

Lucy knew that he knew she'd entered, but he still didn't look at her. Immediately her anxiety spiked.

"Laurëfindil," she said, reaching for his arm. She quickly crossed the room, her hand alighting on his bicep to get his attention. He shook her off and still wouldn't look at her. "Laurëfindil, please." Lucy pressed against him, but he refused to meet her eyes. Angrily – **very** angrily, his hands moving in quick, jerking motions – the ellon fit some small, beryl green phials into the front pocket on his leather satchel, one after another. His face was still obscured by his hair, hanging in a wild golden fall to tumble across his front. It looked lovely, as always.

"Laurëfindil –"

"I told you," the ellon bit out. Once Glorfindel was done fitting the phials into the front, he did it up. The pack made a sharp _zipping_ sound as he yanked the leather drawstrings tight. "I told you to be careful around him. I told you not to say anything. I asked you not to speak Quenya. I **begged** –"

"I'm sorry," Lucy said, pressing herself against him to the point where they were essentially one. She pawed at his clothes as she tried to get his attention, but it was no use. If only he would look at her, he would stay, she was sure. She wouldn't let them be parted again. "I'm sorry, Please, don't go."

"It is no use." Glorfindel said, doing up a second drawstring. His voice was tight. "The High King has decided that I have abdicated my duties for too long, and wishes me to patrol the mountains to clear them of orcs. So I must." There was another _zipping_ sound as he did up the third tie.

It wasn't the real reason he was being sent away. They **both** knew it wasn't the reason why, but neither of them said it aloud. Lucy's begging increased. She crowded against him until she was under his arm, pressing her breasts flat to his chest, her hips grinding against his as she tugged at his clothes in a clumsy attempt to initiate something she was mostly ignorant of. Glorfindel tried to shake her off, but he was still unsuccessful.

"Tell him _no_ ," Lucy begged. "Tell him. Please, stay here –"

"I cannot." Glorfindel repeated. He attempted to shoulder his pack, but Lucy wouldn't let him. "He is the High King. I cannot refuse him. I will return –"

When Lucy began fiddling with the ties on his tunic, his efforts to detangle himself increased. "Lucy, I have duties to attend to," Glorfindel said, his elegant hand closing around hers as he tried to push her away. "The King is waiting." Lucy tried a third time. When the elf lord pushed her away, he also looked in her direction. "Nimeleth, you must **stop** –"

Glorfindel stopped, going still as he took in her appearance. The ellon's face was pale and almost haggard, his head still covered by his hood. Lucy watched as Glorfindel's blue eyes went dark. Those same eyes roamed over her nearly naked form, and the ellon swallowed. Lucy could feel the _hunger_ radiating off of him, the signal coming through loud and clear via her connection to his blood.

"What is this –" Glorfindel began, but before he could leave or question her clumsy attempts at seduction, Lucy reached for him. Her hands curled in the folds of his tunic as she pulled him to eye level, her lips alighting on his as she took advantage of his surprise. Lucy tried to tell him what she wanted by pressing against him, moaning her desire into his mouth.

"No," Glorfindel gasped, trying to peel away from her. Once more – like the time they'd been interrupted by Fingon – his hands pressed against her shoulders in rejection, but it was half-hearted at best. "No, Lucy, I – I cannot. I do not have – _ah –_ I do not have the time –"

But even as he said it, he was kissing her back. Even as he protested his hand was coming up to grip the nape of her neck, holding her in place. Glorfindel's lips were on hers with equal fervor, his tongue sliding inwards as his free hand went to her hip. He gripped the fabric of her transparent nightgown to yank it upwards.

"You have to," Lucy begged in between kisses, sighing with relief as they stumbled back towards the bed. "You have to stop him from taking me away. Please. You have to do something –"

Glorfindel's breathing grew heavy at her request.

"I cannot." he insisted, but he was still kissing her, his lips on her throat and his satchel tumbling from his shoulder. Lucy moaned. "Nimeleth, I cannot do this. You are not well. You do not know what you ask for –" But already Glorfindel's hands were pulling her gown upwards. His lips were moving along her shoulder, her shift falling open to reveal her breasts.

"Please," Lucy repeated, and she really **didn't** know what she was asking for, except that she needed it. The mattress wobbled, covers tangling beneath her rear as Glorfindel pushed her onto it. "Please, I'm so empty. Don't leave –"

And just like that Glorfindel was tearing away from her, shaking his head and stumbling back. His eyes were wild as he went to pick his satchel up off the floor, his movements so clumsy he tripped over his own feet. When Lucy realized what was happening – yet again – she let out a wail of distress. She began crawling across the covers towards him, reaching for the ellon to drag him back, but he evaded her hands. He wouldn't look at her.

"I cannot. I am sorry, so sorry –"

Lucy reached for him again, but he dodged her.

"Laurëfindil!"

"No! I will not do this to you!" He grabbed his short sword and re-shouldered his pack, fleeing through the main entrance. The ellon slammed it shut behind him, leaving nothing but a gust of cold air in his wake.

Lucy screamed the second he shut the door.

She screamed loudly, and then she sobbed. It wasn't actually crying, so much as it was inarticulate howl of rage at being thwarted once again. Chasing Glorfindel would do no good, because he didn't want her, at least not now. Lucy wanted **him** , though. She wanted him inside her, and what she'd gotten versus what she needed was so far apart that she took her rage out on his room instead. There was nothing else to calm her.

Pillows were thrown. Blankets were tossed. A carafe of wine was thrown against the wall in a shower of red, and a dresser furiously tipped over. When Lucy had exhausted herself until she could rage no more – until she was standing in the center of Glorfindel's room, breathing hard – she stared absently towards the elf lord's windows. She listened to them rattling, watching gusts of snow drift between shuttered boards. Her breaths were frosting, her exposed breasts prickling in the cool air.

_Sleep._

And just like that, Lucy felt herself grow tired. Her mind went foggy as the emotional weight of the day finally hit her, her body telling her in an instinctual sort of way that she needed to lie down and rest. Blinking sleepily – her mind deadened by spent-out rage – Lucy made her way back to the bed, absently clutching at her nightgown. She crawled into the covers then huddled beneath them, curling into a ball as she did.

Cocooned within the fabric, Lucy continued to stare absently towards the wall. _Soon_ , she decided. It would happen **soon** , one way or another, and she would make sure it did. Glorfindel could only stay away for so long, and once he was back she would figure out a way to keep them permanently linked together; to keep the High King from farming her off to Mithrim and creating that cookie-cutter family she was so desperately searching for.

Lucy decided to wait for him.

* * *

 

Lucy waited for a while. She waited one hour, then two, followed by three, and still Glorfindel didn't return. Part of her knew that he wouldn't come back – that clearing orcs from the mountains took more than a day. But the irrational part of her – the instinctual, primal part that was taking over her body, one step at a time – didn't care in the slightest. He wouldn't _really_ leave her, Lucy decided. Glorfindel took care of her. He **liked** taking care of her, and Lucy was sure that he'd care for her when he came back. She knew he would, so she continued to wait for him.

Lucy waited, and waited, curled beneath the covers. She waited through the howl of the snowstorm and a nervous looking servant coming in to clean the room. The elleth pointedly ignored her, lying on the mattress half naked and hair mussed. When she left, Lucy waited some more. Slowly the hours of the day vanished. The howl of the wind became a shriek, the boards on the windows warping back and forth violently. The walls of the tower groaned with the force of the blast, and the single light above Glorfindel's bed swung back and forth, casting strange patterns across the walls.

Shivering in the cold, Lucy huddled up further. Her eyes drifted closed, then opened – twice more, in fact – before they stayed shut.

Once she slept, Lucy dreamed. The dream started off with children.

Most of Lucy's dreams revolved children these days, so that in itself was not surprising. This time she **was** a child, however; a spectral presence inhabiting one, watching through the toddler's eyes as her host wandered deep into a forest. At first, she didn't know what to make of it.

The ground seemed too close to her face, her limbs too short and her steps unsteady. The trees around her were huge, white with golden leaves and utterly ancient, their roots ripping up the earth in a manner that seemed caressing. As her host looked skyward, craning his head to try and see the tops, the foliage turned monstrous. Pale green lichen grew thick and springy across the ground, interspersed with patches of small white flowers. Silver lamps had been hanging from the trees, but they were gone now. Her host had wandered too far and on purpose, following the faint murmur of familiar voices. The sky was cast in perpetual twilight, thick and heavy with stars.

As the child walked, the trees began twisting around each other, their limbs interlocking to create natural tunnels. Those tunnels lead into a gorge. Lucy's host wasn't afraid of the darkness, but he **was** lonely, and his robes felt stuffy. Ammë had put him in the fancy ones, because they'd gone to a party for atar's friends, except he'd hated it. He didn't hate the voices, though, and when he'd first heard them – barely carried over wisps of the wind – he'd eagerly toddled off to find the source. Maybe it was her. Maybe Nimeleth had come back to see him.

Lucy's host loved talking to Nimeleth. Nimeleth was soft and kind and sweet, and she always understood what he said. She always kept his secrets.

"Can **you** keep a secret?" she'd ask. Always she would crouch in front of him so they were at eye level, her dark hair pooling on the mossy floor and her pale eyes glowing with the light of the trees. She'd let him tell her the sad things; the things he couldn't tell Ammë, because Atar would get mad. Nimeleth wasn't there, sometimes – she drifted _sideways_ , through the ether – but she always came back. When he was older he wanted to help her. He wanted to make her smile, too. Nimeleth would always hum him lullabies, but sometimes those lullabies sounded sad. Always, she was looking _through_ him.

"Can you keep **me** a secret?" Nimeleth would ask, sitting on the ground between patches of flowers. Lucy's host would always nod, happy and eager to please. "Thank you, Laurëfindil," she'd say, her skin glowing and her hair thick and silky. Nimeleth's eyes were glassy, her cheeks pink with health. Nimeleth's voice had a strange quality to it. Dreamy almost, as if she was half asleep, and definitely breathless. The sound of her voice was comforting and familiar, like the blankets that ammë put on his bed. When the child strained his ears hard enough, he thought he could hear Nimeleth's words whispering to him of the bone white woods. _Come and play,_ the darkness seemed to say. _I'm lonely._

Peering into the gloom, his too-big robes trailing in the dirt, the child wandered deeper. He wanted to find her.

Farther into the woods the child went, crawling over roots and fallen branches. The voices were much louder now, and he was drifting down, deep into the gorge itself. Soon the trees began interlocking so tightly they turned into a cave, the moss giving way to loam and giant white mushrooms. Briefly the child stopped and reached down, tripping over his own feet as he reached for the tubers. Nimeleth liked mushrooms. She ate them, lots and lots, and when he found her he'd give them to her as a present, he decided. Awkwardly shoving them into his pocket, the child continued on, his fancy blue robe trailing behind him. As he wandered into the makeshift tunnel, his thoughts began to drift in bits and pieces, meandering back to the party that he'd escaped less than an hour ago.

Lucy sifted through the toddler's mind. She saw throngs of elves, dark-haired and grey eyed and brightly dressed. They were laden with jewels, their hair braided. Immediately she recognized them as Noldor. Lucy felt a pang in her chest when the child felt a pang in his; when he remembered the way that the Eldar had looked at him strangely, pointedly ignoring him when he'd held out his arms in a clear request to be picked up. _Different_ , their eyes said, and Lucy's host didn't like looking in mirrors because his eyes and hair were not the same. He didn't look like atar – like atar's friends – and it made him feel all hot and uncomfortable inside.

_I'm different_ , the child realized, and another image from the party drifted back to him. He remembered ammë.

Lucy saw an elleth sitting on a divan next to a basket of peaches, her golden hair trailing across the ground and looping around her feet in waves. The elleth was dressed all in white, her pale hands folded neatly in her lap, her gown laden with pearls and her hair coated with crystals. Her eyes were blue like the ocean. Ammë hadn't said much, but Lucy's host had known she was upset. He could feel it, like an ache in his chest.

"Go play, _Flower_ ," she'd told him when he'd tried to crawl onto her lap for a hug. She's pushed him away. "Laurëfindil, go play for a bit. Ammë needs some time to herself."

"Talk to him," someone said, and the child's mind snapped back to the present. His head jerked in the direction of the voice, echoing from deep inside the cave. _Nimeleth._ "Please, he'll listen to you."

There was a pause, then a second voice spoke. It was smooth and deep and very polished. "He's my atar. What makes you think he'll listen?" The child didn't recognized it. Overcome with curiosity, he wandered further.

"He's your **atar**."

Up ahead there was a pile of white roots tangling around one another that cut off the path from the rest of the cave. Following the softness of Nimeleth's voice, the child reached up and clambered over it, his stuffy robes bunching around his middle, his small hands digging into patches of dirt. When he came to the end he saw her. Lucy saw **herself** through the child's eyes, all strange and small and eerily delicate.

Nimeleth-turned-Lucy was standing in between the roots of two giant trees; dressed in blue with her long hair braided, the darkness of it falling in a train of bells and silver coins all the way to her hips. She was wearing a see-through veil over her head, her jewelled sleeves trailing in the dirt.

Her host stopped walking when he saw who was with her. He shrunk back into the wood with alarm.

There was an _elda_ standing across from her. A strange elda that was so tall he seemed to be a giant. The figure's hair was dark red like atar's rubies, his eyes so pale they were almost colorless. Lucy's host had never seen an Elda with red hair before, and it made him feel odd. The stranger's face was very Noldo. He had no circlet, but he was dressed like a prince.

"Just **ask** him." Dream-Lucy said, gesturing with her hands. The two of them were illuminated by the luminescent tubers, growing along the ground. She sounded upset. Immediately Lucy's host began to feel sick in turn. Nimeleth was Nimeleth, but he didn't like it when she was sad, because he could feel it. "Please, I'm begging you."

The Noldo's pewter robes pooled around his limbs like the folds in a river, his thick red hair falling down his front in a tumble of loose curls and waves. One of his hands was braced against the base of the tree, his eyelids heavy as he listened. The two of them were not touching, but the Elda was leaning towards her. He was leaning _into_ Nimeleth, and Nimeleth wasn't leaning away.

"It won't work."

"He's your atar."

"As I **said**. The task is futile."

Nimeleth was tiny compared to her companion. She barely came up to the middle of his chest, and next to the strange, red-haired elda she looked fragile. "Don't do it," Nimeleth pleaded. She was starting to sound angry, too, like ammë did when atar didn't listen. The elda remained quiet, looking down at her, his eyelids heavy and his expression strange. "Don't got there! So many people will die!"

"You keep on saying that," the Noldo murmured, "but it never happens. You worry too much, I think."

"I told you, I **see** things –"

"I see **you** ," the Noldo said, cutting her off and moving closer. Lucy's host leaned forward, trying to hear better, but his hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, and there was a bitter taste of _something_ in his mouth. "You should stay here, I think. My atar is not fond of those who are not our kind, but he has a thing for flaunting rules."

"Maitimo, I **can't**."

Lucy's host tripped.

In her dream Lucy felt the child tumble down. She felt him lose his footing on the branch, before catching himself and scrabbling back up. She felt his panic; the spike of fear that flooded his senses when he realized he'd made a noise. When the child fell the elda called _Maitimo_ and the woman called Nimeleth turned to look in the child's direction. Maitimo's expression remained mellow – almost bored – but Dream-Lucy's was one of alarm.

"Laurëfindil?" Dream-Lucy gasped. Then she was striding towards the child, picking up the hem of her heavy skirt and bunching it between her hands. She began to run, her jewelled sleeves _clinking_ in her wake, the bells in her hair jangling. "Laurëfindil, what are you doing here?!"

Maitimo watched with a heavy gaze as Dream-Lucy hurried over to the branch, picking up the child and balancing him on her hip. Immediately she drew him into a hug, planting a familial kiss to the top of his head and smoothing back his hair. She was a bit like an _ammë_ , in that moment.

"Laurëfindil, are you alright?"

Nimeleth was _off._ He could feel the sadness oozing off her, thick and heavy. Inside she was shrieking, and the child could hear her shrieking, too. She was shrieking and she was going to go back through the ether to find them. She was going to leave him –

He whimpered. He **hated** it when she left.

"Laurëfindil?"

"You feel funny," Lucy's host said, his eyes stinging as he rubbed at them. Dream-Lucy made a sound of sympathy and hugged him close, planting another familiar kiss against the side of his head. The child buried his face against her shoulder, his fingers tangling in her hair as she rocked him. The Noldo watched as Nimeleth walked back.

"You're good with children," he said. Even though his voice was still smooth and mellow, he sounded a bit surprised. Dream-Lucy's response was waspish.

"Of **course** I'm good with them."

When Nimeleth stopped the elda reached out, ruffling the child's hair. Lucy felt his hand on her host's head as vividly as if it were her own. The strange-looking Noldo had long fingers that were as pale as the rest of him, and his palm was warm and oddly _rough_. His voice was very neutral as he spoke.

"Vanya?" the Noldo asked her, not unkindly. Nimeleth's response was angry, her tone defensive a as she gently bounced the toddler up and down on her hip.

"Half," she corrected, holding him close. She looked like she was on the verge of crying. Lucy's host **hated** it when Nimeleth cried, because when she cried he couldn't breathe. It felt like bugs beneath his skin, thorns pricking at his palms. "He's half," Nimeleth was saying. "There's nothing wrong with him."

Maitimo's expression remained blank, but otherworldly in a fiery sort of way. He looked like fire, but he was maddeningly calm.

"I did not mean it as a slight," the elda said, and Dream-Lucy made a sniffling sound. She reached up with her free hand, rubbing at her eyes. Her dark hair spilled down her front with a clatter of silver. She was sobbing.

"Sorry," she choked out, and Lucy's host felt like crying too. Her lips trembled as she pressed her free hand across her face. "Sorry, I'm just stressed –"

"Nimeleth," Lucy's host whispered, squirming in her arms. He felt thorns on his hands and thorns on his face and worms in his heart, and his skin was hot and itchy all over. She couldn't cry. She couldn't cry, she couldn't get upset –

"Nimeleth, I don't like it."

Nimeleth turned to him. She turned to Lucy's host, and Lucy's host could **see**. Nimeleth had the exact same face that Lucy had in real life; deathly pale and devoid of color with a doll-like complexion, a massive scar traversing down the side of her neck to her breast. Her eyes were black.

"What's wrong?" Dream-Lucy asked, and the child leaned back. Nimeleth's eyes were black. The children were gone, and she was screaming. "Laurëfindil, what don't you like?"

And then, Lucy woke up.

She woke up in Glorfindel's bed with the dream she'd dreamt in fragments. She woke up with the memories she'd seen tangled together, decompressed by a child's mind. At first all Lucy could remember were the thorns; the thorns in her hands and the elf with red hair who'd stood a little too close for comfort. Eventually, the rest came drifting back to her in bits and pieces; ethereal snatches of time that even after she recalled them, Lucy couldn't really make sense of what was what.

The snowstorm was still raging. It shook the entire estate, and the winds were so bad that the bed and lamp trembled as if in the middle of an earthquake. Glorfindel wasn't back yet, but he needed to be. Lucy was driven by an almost zombie-like urge to find him; by an unquenchable need to keep the two of them together, but the storm encircling Gondolin was in the way.

What if the storm prevented Glorfindel from coming back?

_Where do the tunnels go?_ Lucy had asked Morwen long ago, and the woman had shrugged. Lucy didn't know where they went either, except out of the city, and while her lack of knowledge had originally dissuaded her, the situation was different now. More urgent. Her brow was dotted with sweat, her face flushed with a fever. She knew a way into them, she realized: the entrance hidden just beneath the cobblestones in Glorfindel's gatehouse. And while Lucy didn't know the layout, she was aware that they connected to the underground system at large. Perhaps they linked up to the dungeons. Perhaps they connected to the paths that led into the mountains.

Perhaps the tunnels would lead her to Glorfindel.

_It's time_ , her body said, and slowly – her joints aching, her limbs heavy – Lucy rose from the bed. If Glorfindel couldn't come to her, she would go to him. She would use the tunnels. Once he returned, the two of them could escape.

_Talk to him,_ Dream-Lucy had said. _Please, I'm begging you._ Lucy knew that the memory was important – that something strange and terrible was about to happen – but she had to find her family first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’m back with another update! This past week has been incredibly stressful (and only promises to get more so), so I’m posting now. Thank you to everyone for the kudos, follows, and favorites. It means a lot to me that you didn’t give up on this story (or on me updating it).
> 
> A big thank you to my beta readers as well, for getting this chapter into shape.


	37. The Tunnels

Lucy didn’t go into the tunnels right away. Despite the fog that clouded her senses and the _need_ she had to find Glorfindel, Lucy knew that venturing into a snowstorm in a see-through nightgown would get her killed through exposure. In a haze she mechanically made her way up the stairwell, returning to her room to grab the supplies she would need. The corridor was pitch dark, the distant howl of the wind winding along the length of it. When she returned to her room she found the condition there not much better. Her bed was just the way she’d left it, but it was still night out, and the lamps in her room had blown out hours before. _It’s time_ , a disembodied voice told her, but her brain said to go back to bed. Lucy **wanted** to go back to bed, to wait until morning to find him. The _old_ Lucy agreed with that.

Lucy let her feet lead her to the mattress, her shackles jangling around her wrist and ankle as she crawled beneath the covers. Soon the pitch-black sky paled to purple, the light growing just enough that she could see the rafters at the top of her tower; the shape of the slot-like window that rested just beyond the foot of her bed. Eventually the dawn arrived, but the storm remained.

It was a pale dawn. A grey, sickly thing full of biting cold that normally would have made Lucy curl up beneath the covers, but in the intervening hours between Glorfindel’s room and hers, she’d come down with a fever. A burning, insatiable thing that made her hair stick to her forehead with sweat, her joints aching and her breaths coming out in short, shallow gasps as she laid there, staring at the ceiling. Everything ached, and it was the ache of emptiness, but she felt _stretched_ , her skin too tight, like something was crawling through her bloodstream. Finally, someone opened the door.

It was Morwen, carrying a breakfast tray. Behind her was Maeleth, carrying a fresh set of sheets. Aeloth was nowhere to be seen.

“How are you feeling, Sweetness?” she asked, and like the day before she seemed strangely _off_ , her mind elsewhere. Her expression was vacant.

Lucy gave her a weak, pacifying smile.

“Alright,” she said. She didn’t mind that it was Morwen that morning, instead of Glorfindel’s nanny. The older woman would be easier to get rid of.

Morwen walked over to the bed, carrying the tray. It contained a pot of that wonderful smelling tea from the night before. Beside the tea was Lucy’s breakfast; sliced venison so rare it was raw and glistening, a large bowl of what Lucy had long ago coined _elvish porridge_ , and three slices of bread, smelling fresh and cooked from the oven. Lucy was craving blood more than anything, but her hunger spiked at the sight of the venison, her mouth watering. Eat. She needed to _eat_ , to stay healthy. She remembered that.

“I thought you could eat breakfast here today,” Morwen demurred, setting down the overladen tray on the nearby dresser with a _clack_. “You can stay in the chamber, to rest up. It is cold elsewhere in the keep.”

Lucy didn’t want to stay in her room, and didn’t plan to, but nodded blankly and said _okay_. She could figure out how to escape later so long as she avoided Aeloth. With a great deal of care Morwen helped Lucy into a seated position. Lucy’s breasts were sore that morning. Her hip bones ached as if they’d been stretched on a rack.

“Drink it all,” Morwen commanded, reaching for the teacup and bringing it to Lucy’s lips. Behind her Maeleth veered off, heading towards the adjacent chamber to draw a bath. She put the fresh sheets on top of Lucy’s bed before she left. “You must keep up your strength.” Morwen continued.

Lucy did so.

Like before, the older woman fed her glass after glass until there was no tea left, and after Lucy finished she picked up the tray and sat down her breakfast in front of her. Without really thinking Lucy reached forward and began to eat. She had never been a messy eater – she was _picky_ , beyond all else – but in a machine-like fashion she continued shoveling food between her lips, uncaring of the contents so long as they were inside her. She needed more energy to _escape_.

Morwen turned to take some dirty dishes out of the way, stacking them in a neat little pile before walking back to the table to deposit them. Lucy wasn’t really watching her – too consumed she was with her meal – but a few moments later, she heard a _crash_. The sound of pottery shattering rang out with a musical clatter, followed by a gasp. There was the uneven shuffle of someone staggering. When Lucy looked up, she found Morwen on the floor.

The woman was kneeling, gripping the nearby table with a vice-like hold, her other hand clamped over her mouth as she stared at nothing. Her face was ashen.

“Morwen?” Lucy said through a mouthful of food, somewhat alarmed. She’d never seen the woman look so shaken, and even through her haze of lust and her determination to leave, there was something about the scene that set her warning bells screeching.

Morwen turned to her, and she looked like _Morwen_ again, her eyes alive. The woman blinked once, then began trembling, gazing around Lucy’s room with panicked, darting motions as if she’d never seen it before.

“I, I, I –” she began.

“Morwen?” Lucy asked, and Morwen swallowed heavily, seeming to come back to herself.

“I am sorry, Sweetness,” she demurred, pulling herself to her feet. There was sweat dotting her brow and she kept her gaze trained to the floor. “I am just… I must have had a momentary spell of weakness. Forgive me.”

Lucy said nothing, eying her speculatively as she continued to chomp down on the last of her bread. The rest was done. Without a word Morwen slunk back to her, removing Lucy’s empty plates and tray. “That’s enough for now,” she said, swallowing visibly. Morwen closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to get rid of a surge of vertigo. “Come, it’s time for your bath.”

By the time they reached the chamber, Maeleth was already gone.

Morwen was getting worse by the minute. She was barely able to keep her eyes open, and Lucy sat still, watching the woman with something bordering concern as she struggled to wash her without losing consciousness. Morwen needed to leave, but she was decidedly _ill_ , and despite her own motivations Lucy felt her apprehension rise. The older woman was the only other human in the city beside Belor, and she’d been kind to her. She understood Lucy, even when Glorfindel didn’t, and that meant more than she’d realized.

When Morwen brought her back to her room, pulling Lucy’s lounging dress over her head, Lucy came up with an idea. A good one.

“Do you want to use my bed?” she asked as Morwen wrapped a fabric girdle around her hips. Morwen blinked, looking up at her in a dazed, troubled fashion.

“Pardon, Sweetness?” she said.

“Do you want to sleep on my bed?” Lucy clarified. “You look tired.” Then, when Morwen seemed to waver, she added, “I can work on my stitching while you’re asleep. There’s a chair.”

But already, Morwen was nodding.

“I think I must,” she said, blinking sleepily. With great difficulty the older woman managed to help Lucy don the rest of her dress, wrapping her in a thick fox-fur shrug that trailed all the way to the floor. “I do not know what is wrong with me. Perhaps I have not been sleeping well.”

“It’s alright.” Lucy knew what that felt like.

The woman nodded, and once Lucy was settled Morwen made her way over to the bed, gingerly collapsing atop it. Lucy watched her like a hawk, pretending to work on her stitching. Soon Morwen was fast asleep, her body relaxed and her hands lying limp across the covers. Once the woman was dead to the world Lucy sprung into action, putting down her embroidery hoop and making her way over to the chest.

She grabbed her slippers and mitts, along with a thick woolen scarf and a random cloak from the dresser. Trying not to trip over her own feet in her blind rush to leave, Lucy made her way over to the secret door behind the tapestry and slipped inside. In a feverish stupor – made giddy by desperation and the prospect of finding Glorfindel – she barely managed to stumble her way down the stairs, driven by a warm, tingling sensation beneath her skin and the aching hollowness that seemed to have sunk all the way to her bones. _It’s time_ , Lucy told herself, and she was so high on the idea of **him** that she was sure she would find her way through the tunnels before Aeloth or Morwen found her missing. She was counting on it.

The servant’s tunnel went all the way down the tower to the first floor, where it then wound through the kitchens and into the courtyard. Through some miracle of intervention – through the giddiness and the _haze_ – Lucy remembered that Glorfindel’s study was on the same floor as his room. That he might have maps of the tunnels, so she stopped.

Trying to be as quiet as she could – which was not quiet, at all – Lucy made her way to the study. Twice, she had to hide from the guards wandering about the halls. Aearmarth was not in the study, and the chamber itself was not locked. Her hands quivering, Lucy rooted through the maps piled on the table and the far side of the room. After fifteen minutes of searching she found nothing. If Glorfindel had directions to the tunnels, he was keeping them hidden elsewhere.

As she turned to leave, the letters and loose leafs of paper strewn across his desk caught her eye.

On a hunch Lucy began rifling through them, looking for stray maps. There was nothing much of interest on Glorfindel’s desk to begin with, beyond what she already knew; reports on grain and additional supplies, along with the situation beyond the city within the mountains. It was described in vague, purposely oblique terms that she couldn’t make much sense of, but one letter did catch Lucy’s eye. Perhaps it was because it was similar to the note she’d spied on his desk several weeks earlier.

_Three missing_ , the letter said, the delicate parchment crinkling between her hands as she picked it up. _The lower reaches might have been compromised._

It was vague and cryptic, like all the rest. Lucy eyed the letter for a moment more, then stuffed it into her pocket and headed back into the hall. She proceeded on her way to the tunnels.

* * *

 

The weather was frigid when Lucy went outside. Immediately she sunk up to her knees in the snow. It was only then that she’d realized she’d forgotten her boots, and when she did Lucy cursed her luck, breaking into shivers. Her teeth chattered and the chill was mind-numbing, but she didn’t want to go back. There was no going back now.

_Not far_ , she told herself over and over again, but in the snowstorm it seemed like forever.

The storm was raging, but the snow was thin; the flakes small and white, the sky an endless monotone grey as the wind whipped it down from the mountains. Around her were the white stone buildings of Glorfindel’s estate, the sharply slanted roofs and golden steeples covered in rime ice. The ground was thick with snow drifts, carved into swirling shapes by the gale. Lucy could see few landmarks beyond the main entrance and the blacksmith’s forge, and even those were hazy, made pale by the driving sleet.

Gritting her teeth, she took one step forward, then another, gasping at the coldness. The bottom of her dress and slippers were sopping wet, her fingers and toes numb to the chill. The gatehouse was empty when she entered it, which wasn’t surprising. Lucy had only see one or two guards patrolling the walls, but everyone else was nestled safely inside. Within the structure the drifts were only a few inches deep, and in some places they had landed just _so_ to show the cobblestone. Icicles hung from the large, open windows that lined the left side, and through them Lucy could see nothing but white, the keep itself disappearing into the gale.

Shivering hard and stamping her feet – one hand cradling her front in a motion that had become instinctual – Lucy kneeled down and felt around the stone with her mitted hands, looking for the entrance. When she could feel none, she took off her gloves with her teeth and tried again, searching for the tell-tale _groove_ of the door that led into the tunnel, but still no luck.

There had been a door like this in Tommy’s movies, Lucy remembered; a secret door that led into Moria that Gandalf had opened with a magic word. Although it had been ages since she’d thought of her original home, back on Earth – or what had led her and Tommy to Middle-earth in the first place – Lucy recalled the word with ease because it was the first one she’d ever said. The first word she’d spoken in Sindarin to Maeglin.

“ _Mellon_ ,” she breathed, but nothing happened. The whistle of the wind was fierce. “Mellon,” Lucy said, speaking louder – her hand traversing the cobblestone – but still nothing gave way. Lucy felt her despair rise, and in an effort to comfort herself she began humming a lullaby. Her feet were wet and her shoes were wet and her whole body hurt and she was miserable, but Lucy was **sick** of being sad. She was going to do what she wanted, and no one was going to get in the way. “Mellon!” she said a third time, but the word was worthless.

Just as she was about to break into tears – just as she was about to lose her mind and go charging out the gate onto the street in an attempt to find another way in – Lucy’s hand brushed against the cobblestone, pressing down. There was a _click_.

The stone groaned as it sunk to the side, sliding smoothly back to reveal the darkness beneath. Lucy gasped and had to grip the edges to keep herself from falling head over heels. When she saw the tunnel opening up like a yawning maw, she nearly sobbed with relief. The steps were craggy and raw cut as before. Inside the lights were extinguished. It was then that Lucy realized that she’d forgotten a torch, or anything to light the torch _with_ , but the storm was so bad she couldn’t return. She couldn’t see anything beyond the windows of the gatehouse, and the air was getting colder.

Looking around herself for something to light the way, Lucy spied a closed-off section of the gatehouse, opposite the door; a small room of sorts that seemed to function like some sort of walk-in cupboard. Stumbling to her feet – worried that the entrance would close before she got a chance to crawl inside – Lucy rushed forward, throwing open the hatch and violently rooting through it for supplies. There were coils of pale yellow rope, along with several straw brooms stacked in a corner. Nearby there was a barrel of rocks, along with several smaller barrels filled with what looked to be dried moss. Resting on the middle shelf was a broken Noldorin lamp, and beside that was a small wooden crate filled with long, ivory-colored candles, fat at the bottom but thin on top.

_Candles_. Candles would work well. Lucy reached for them, picking up the long tallowed sticks and shoving several of them into the girdle of her dress. A few shelves down there was a small pot filled with what looked like flint sticks, which Lucy barely recognized and knew even less on how to use. She snatched some anyways, stumbling back into the cold towards the tunnel. One hand reaching down to grab the hem of her dress and lift it up, the other to the wall, Lucy began making her way down the steps, her face flushed with fever and her legs wobbly with haste.

_Glorfindel_ , she thought as she reached the bottom. _I have to find Glorfindel_. Inside the tunnel the floor was dry and cool beneath her feet. The torch was on the wall where the guard had last left it, but beyond that Lucy could see nothing. She grabbed one of the candles tucked into her girdle, bringing it forward with a shaking hand and the flint with the other as she tried to figure out how to light it. She’d been pampered for so long that she had next to no survival skills, and she was so feverish with the need to escape that she’d forgotten almost everything of use, including the knife that Morwen had given her.

“Think,” Lucy told herself as she stared at the items, her teeth chattering loudly. _Just think._ **_Plan_ ** _._ Lucy wasn’t very good at long-term planning – she tended to live in the moment – but the idea of finding Glorfindel motivated her. The thought of being happy always did. Lucy struck the flint against the ground, then the steps, but neither of them produced any sparks. When she tried the wall, there was some progress – the air lighting up with small flashes of gold – but it died down as quickly as it came. Moving her candle closer she tried to light it again, and again, but the sparks were erratic. Her arm was growing tired.

_It’s time_ , the voice told her, and even though Lucy was tired she continued to try. She couldn’t seem to stop. Just when she thought her limb would fall off with the strain, a spark caught and the tallow lit. Lucy nearly dropped the candle in surprise. It was an ember at first. Very small, and it nearly went out when she fumbled with it, but Lucy dropped the flint instead. It struck the ground with a tinny _ding_ as she cupped the light with her hands, and Lucy looked up. In front of her the shadows in the tunnel receded.

There was not much light that came from the candle – barely enough to see more than three feet in front of her, but it was still better than before. The ground was flat, the dirt pounded down. Otherwise it was empty, devoid of everything save for herself and the torch on the wall. A tingling sensation made itself known in her chest, pleasant and fluttering; a _tugging_ sensation beneath her breastbone that seemed to be yanking her forward, as if she were tied to a tether, but she thought about Glorfindel instead. Reaching for the flint, Lucy pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, tentatively walking forward as she held the candle aloft.

Soon her steps grew faster, her gait more confident. She was too focused on her goal and her relief to finally be _going_ that she didn't think to grab the torch off the wall and use that instead.

* * *

 

Lucy walked aimlessly for a time. She wasn’t fully aware of the fact that she _was_ walking, or _where_ , just that she was putting one foot in front of the other and going in the direction that felt best, following the phantom call. Eventually she realized that every time she took a turn, she was heading _down_ , and that comforted her a bit. It seemed logical to her – this pattern she was following without really following – and from that point on Lucy trusted her feet, taking whichever tunnel sloped forward. Deeper and deeper she went, into the cavernous warrens that existed beneath the city.

Lucy had known there were tunnels beneath Gondolin since she’d first arrived, but it was only now – when she was wandering about unaided – that she finally clued into their scope _._ The tunnel system seemed to be as big as the city itself, if not bigger, and time had no meaning down there. There was no passage of time except for the melting wax of her candle. She could have been beneath the earth for a few minutes, or perhaps a few hours, but the truth of it was that Lucy simply didn’t care. So long as she kept walking forward her anxiety was kept to a minimum, her mind in a trance.

The tunnels were dark and dry at first, and while they weren’t warm, they weren’t cold either. As Lucy wandered deeper, the tunnels themselves began to change. They became more jagged, the corridors only half-finished, and as she walked further still they began curving around each other in organic shapes, becoming more cavern-like. Faintly Lucy could hear the murmur of voices from somewhere higher up, echoing down, but she ran into no one below.

Eventually the tunnels grew warmer. Lucy grew warmer too and loosened her cloak, her steps growing lazy and meandering. Her hand went to her chest, rubbing at a strange tightness across her ribs. Her breaths grew somewhat short. Lucy kept on walking until she was almost half asleep; until her brain began to shut down from the sheer _monotony_ of it all, and her body took over instead. She walked until her first candle burnt down to a nub, and when the wax was licking at her palm she finally reached up to change it. It was only when the second candle had burnt to a crisp and she was moving onto the third that Lucy realized that she’d forgotten the torch; that she only had two candles left. It was then that a small thread of apprehension began to weave through her.

_How deep am I?_ she wondered, but she didn’t know.

_It doesn’t matter_ , a voice whispered to her, tickling like sandpaper against her ear. Lucy recognized it, but couldn’t place it through the fog that was shrouding her senses. _Keep going._

Lucy did, despite her muddled apprehension and the way she was running out of candles. The tunnels were becoming even more rough-hewn, barely more than impressions of paths. The air was much warmer and moist, but somewhat _thin_. Faintly Lucy thought she could hear the murmur of water, but she didn’t know where it was coming from. The light of her candle did not show the path ahead by a great deal, but from what she could discern the rock was naturally hollowed, pockmarked and chipped. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in greater numbers; large cobwebs, so big they sometimes spanned the width of the tunnel and were difficult to traverse. Patches of lichen grew on the walls, luminescent mushrooms forming a thick carpet on the floor. Stalactites were hanging from the ceiling.

Up ahead Lucy could see the tunnel widening out, its ceiling dropping down until it was flat and wide. When Lucy drew closer still, she saw two black maws looming out of the darkness; two tunnel systems, and the sound of rushing water was much louder. The pounding in her head was much louder, too.

_Where am I_ ? She wondered as she reached the branch, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind it was shut out, brushed away with a caressing _push_. The skin beneath her shackles felt hot. There was an oppressive sensation in the air; a tightening pressure over her breastbone and a buzzing at the back of her skull that she knew all too well, except she forgot the specifics.

_It can’t be that bad_ , she reasoned as she stared at the two foreboding entrances _. Just pick one_. Both of the tunnels were covered by spider webs, but the left more so than the right. The webs stringing across it formed a circular pattern that resembled a cocoon, and the air that emanated from its low, oblong entrance was slightly foul. There were no mushrooms on the ground, but the entrance was slimy, and through the pale light of her candle Lucy saw strange red lichen growing across the rock.

An odd sensation made itself known between her shoulder blades, as if someone was watching her. When Lucy looked around, she saw nothing. Through the haze of lust and the burgeoning fever, her apprehension began to grow.

_It’s here_ , the old Lucy said. _It’s here, you have to go back_. Her scar throbbed something awful.

_Keep walking,_ a voice commanded, and Lucy recognized the voice in an odd sort of way, but couldn’t place it. She didn’t like the smell that was coming from the left tunnel, and even through her fever she **knew** that she didn’t. Despite that, she didn’t want to go back.

_Think of Glorfindel_ , she repeated. Lucy thought of herself sitting in the secret garden beneath the statue of Tommy, the stone figure gazing down at her like it was alive. She imagined Glorfindel nearby, the laughter of a child not far off, and saw herself tinkering with the strange, spinning lamp that Maeglin had taught her how to make. She thought of all this, and she smiled. It was nice being around others, she decided; it was nice not being lonely, and it was nice being **loved**. A family would give her that. Once she got Glorfindel back and they escaped from Fingon, everything would be wonderful, she decided. She took a step towards the darker, foul-smelling tunnel, and then another. The candlelight flickered in her hand, her slipper-clad feet stepping on something small and knobby as she walked in. Those small, knobbly things crunched beneath her toes as she passed.

The tunnel was straight for a very long while, sloping at a sharp angle. Eventually it began to twist, while the ceiling remained low and wide. As it leveled out and became flatter it almost seemed to turn into a cave, oblong with stalactites and stalagmites piercing it from top and bottom. Not too far off, Lucy could hear the river. The walls were wet. Around her the cave was covered with layers of cobwebs, one on top of another; massive cobwebs from which nothing hung, but so big they could trap a man.

Lucy skirted them awkwardly. More than once her skirts brushed against them, wisps of it clinging to the wool. A _pip, pip, pap_ sound came from somewhere inside the cave, along with a whispering noise that she couldn’t quite place, like silk moving across a rougher surface. The crunching, uncomfortable feeling beneath her feet continued, and the throb of her scar got worse.

Reaching down – her candle in hand – Lucy attempted to grab her skirts to gather them close, but as she did she got cobwebs in her hair. As she tried to disentangle them, she tripped.

“Shit,” she said. When her hand automatically went to her front to protect it – the other going to the ground to stop her fall – she dropped the candle. It rolled across the ground for a foot or so, the flame flickering wildly. Knobby brittle things _crunched_ beneath her feet as she stumbled to her knees.

The moment Lucy put a hand to the ground to stop her fall, she discovered the objects were sharp in a worn down sort of way. She cut her palm on them. As the candle rolled further, the flame dipped lower. The others fell out of her girdle. Lucy quickly scrabbled forward despite the _clinking_ on the ground and the cobwebs in her hair, reaching for it. She didn’t want the light to go out.

When her hand closed around the wax stem, she lifted it up. Sniffling audibly as she looked around herself for the missing candles, Lucy reminded herself of Glorfindel. She knew he wasn’t down here, but she’d hoped she would have found a way to him by now. She’d trusted her feet. Slowly the flame flared back to its regular size, large and orange and luminous. She couldn’t see the other candles, and absently mused it was because the wax stick blended into the floor; with the long, narrow stones that curved at sharp angles like ribs.

A second later, Lucy realized that they **were** ribs. That she was sitting on a pile of bones, bleached and dry. Her breath caught in her throat.

_The lower reaches might have been compromised_ , the letter had said. Glorfindel had been worried about it – and had tried to hide the news from her – weeks before. Above here the _shffing_ sound echoed again. Lucy looked up and to the left, raising her candle. On the ceiling amongst the cobwebs, there was a familiar shape. A large, white shape with gangly limbs like a spider, slowly stirring from its nest of webbing.

Lucy’s scar throbbed. Her breaths grew short.

The baramog yawned wide before it cracked its neck back into place. It turned towards her.

Immediately Lucy rushed to her feet and ran as fast as she could, not caring of where she was going so long as she was running, dropping the candle in haste. She ran into the darkness, her hair tangling with cobwebs and her feet tripping over mountains of bone.

Baramog. There was a **second** baramog, and she remembered the first, its teeth on her throat and its claws in her flesh. Lucy remembered her broken ankle and being unable to scream and never, ever, ever. She should have never gone into the tunnels. Her breaths were coming out in gasps.

In front of her the tunnel narrowed. Lucy didn’t realize it was entirely ensconced in cobwebs until she ran headlong into it, her momentum allowing her to fall through the first few layers. _Click, click, click_ , came the sound of sharp nails moving along the stone behind her. In the dark she couldn’t see it. Lucy couldn't breathe and the cobwebs were everywhere, white and thick as a door. She screamed.

_Found you,_ the voice said, and Lucy remembered **Mairon**. She remembered Sauron. She remembered what he’d done.

In a blind panic – letting out a sob – Lucy leaned forward. She pushed against the webbing and then she fell through it, just a bit. Another push and she was falling all the way forward, stringy threads clinging to her hair and dress.

Suddenly there was _light_.

The twisting sensation beneath her breastbone turned into a hurricane of vertigo, a rushing sound in her ears. She wasn’t in the tunnel anymore. She was falling into long, pale green grass, the fragrance of honeysuckle high on the wind. Her body thudded softly against the ground as she landed, and it took Lucy a second to realize there was no baramog behind her. That there was no cave either. It took Lucy even longer to realize that there was no webbing holding her in place, although there were remnants of it clinging to her hair. When she clued into this, she looked up.

She was in a valley of some sort. An incredibly steep mountain valley, with massive, snow-capped peaks on either side. The valley was long, to the point where Lucy couldn’t discern the end of it; covered in lush green grass that whistled softly in the warm summer breeze, giving way to peat moss that trailed up the mountains sides until that too turned into stone. There were no forests nearby. No trees and no hill upon which a white city sat. It was summer here, but it had been winter in Gondolin. Above her the sky was cast in perpetual twilight, so thick with stars that it was like looking into the heart of the Milky Way.

It reminded her of her dreams.

“Help!” Lucy croaked through a cough. The air was thick; as thick as it had been when she’d first landed in Middle-earth, and everything was new. Lucy coughed again, then gagged on panic. She was still cold, her hair covered in spider webs, but there was no tunnel and no Gondolin and the grass felt as real beneath her fingertips as the silk of her dress. “HELP!” she screamed.

A warm summer breeze returned her call, but otherwise there was nothing. Lucy was alone, again.


	38. The Cleft of Light

The first thing Lucy did was pinch herself. She reached for her arm, her nails digging in. Twisting the flesh again and again, she tried to will herself back to Gondolin through pain alone. Lucy worried at her arm until it was bruised and bleeding, but the valley remained static and unchanging. The summer breeze lifted up the ends of her hair, the stars above remaining bright and endless. It appeared to be twilight. When pinching didn’t work, the next thing Lucy did was stagger to her feet, trying to run headlong in every which direction in an effort to stumble through a portal. No matter how many useless circles she turned—or how many times she fell—she remained in the same place, stuck in the same time. She didn’t know **what** time she was in, or where, and the valley felt more like her dreams than Middle-earth.

The air was _newer_ , and different. The colors were richer. In all directions as far as the eye could see was pristine wilderness, and all of a sudden the things she was feeling were much more potent. She could taste honeysuckles on her tongue as she took in great gasps of air. The musical clatter of sweet grass—undulating in flashes of silver as it rolled and dipped with the wind—overwhelmed her ears.

Then reality sunk in and Lucy fell to her knees, one hand braced to the ground while the other clutched at her chest.

Everything. **Everything** was missing.

The lust was gone, stripped away like a layer of paint, but without the all-ending, insatiable drive all that remained was an intolerable sensation of _loss_. Because there was a reason why she was so obsessed with having children, beyond the physical. There was a reason why she burst into tears every time she looked in the mirror and discovered nothing there. Lucy was lonely, and every fiber of her being was screaming that it didn’t have to be this way. That on another plane of existence, it hadn’t.

In her mind’s eye, Lucy could see it: she saw herself in the secret garden, reclining on the stone bench and heavily pregnant. Her dress was pulled down to reveal a swollen breast, a pale-haired baby nursing hungrily at her nipple. Not too far off a toddler was playing with a set of blocks. His hair was golden too, his tiny ears pointed. Beside her sat Tommy. Her best friend was dressed in shades of grey, a deep cowl drawn over her hair like a monk’s. Her face was tanned by the sun.

“How do you feel?” Tommy asked, and in this new version of reality Lucy had turned to gaze at the other woman, smiling serenely.

“Good,” Lucy said, adjusting the baby. She pressed down on her breast so the milk would flow faster, her eyelids heavy with relaxation. “Glorfindel will be home soon. I finished my new project.”

“The spinning lantern?”

“Yes, for the children.” She had a workshop in the basement of Glorfindel’s keep, and when she’d been more mobile she’d spent all her days there, tinkering with this and deconstructing that. It was her favourite thing to do besides spending time with her family. Not too far off the toddler laughed. Tommy watched her nurse with a strangely intense expression.

“Is something wrong?” Lucy asked. Tommy shook her head. In that moment—on another plane of existence—Lucy realized with unequivocal clarity that her best friend should have survived their fall into Middle-earth. That there had been another reality written just for **her**. The loss of the other woman was heart-wrenching.

“No,” her best friend said, smiling in a funny way. “You just look so different now. How many are you carrying this time?”

“Twins,” Lucy beamed. “They’ll be born in the fall.”

Tommy rolled her eyes. When Lucy had demanded to know what was wrong, her best friend had laughed.

“Only you, Lucy,” she said. “Only **you** would want more children.”

“Of course I do,” Lucy declared, leaning down to kiss her baby’s head with pride. “They make me happy.” Lucy was more than happy. Tommy was back after a year-long excursion and Glorfindel would return soon. Life was relaxing and full of _love_. There was no war.

“Maybe it’s something in the water.” Tommy grumbled, rubbing at her brow in exasperation.

“When they’re inside me, it feels like he’s inside me too.” Lucy explained, trying not to feel too defensive. Her swollen belly strained against the silk of her dress as she exhaled, her lips slightly parted from the weight on her lungs. She had a hard time articulating why she enjoyed it so much, but she needed to explain it. It was important to her that Tommy understood. “It feels like he’s talking to me, even when he’s not there. I’m never alone and the babies talk too. I fall asleep to their heartbeats.”

“Yeah, but you already have two. It’s an awful lot.”

“ _Four_ , after these ones are born,” Lucy corrected proudly. “And it’s not a lot.”

Tommy wrinkled her nose in distaste. In this version of reality she had a scar on her face that threaded through her hair. It was faint now, but still noticeable from their fall. After they’d been found on the mountain slope her best friend had been unconscious for weeks.

“I can’t relate,” Tommy admitted.  “Wanting to be a housewife, I mean.”

“Everyone has different ways of finding happiness,” Lucy demurred. “Your way is books, mine are children.” She looked at her best friend sitting beside her on the bench; dressed in grey robes with a satchel slung across her back, filled with scrolls from her latest travels. The two of them had diverged along very different paths, but both those paths had been right.

“You’re weird Lucy,” Tommy said. Lucy had laughed and smiled ear-to-ear.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m happy. Are you staying tonight? Glorfindel would love to speak with you about Gondor, I think.”

Tommy nodded.

“Of course.”

Then the memory of what would never be disappeared.

In the present day—ripped from a reality that was no longer her own—Lucy screamed. Her body curled inwards, her mind going into shock as it struggled to cope with the realization that Tommy should have survived their fall. The loss of Glorfindel and her children made it worse. She’d always been able to feel him now, she realized; a gentle, cocooning presence that was akin to early morning sunshine, and that presence had been lurking on the edge of her subconscious ever since she’d fallen into Middle-earth.

On another plane of existence, she remembered how kind he’d been to Tommy. She remembered how he’d smiled softly and bowed before the woman, thanking her for her time. The ellon had never wanted more than one child—he’d been worried about her health—but Lucy did, so he’d acquiesced. Afterwards, he’d considered it a sign from the Valar.

“Should we move?” the elf lord asked that night after dinner, holding their toddler in his lap. Lucy was reclining in their bed, propped up by pillows as she’d nursed the baby.

“Move where?” she’d asked sleepily, her hand massaging her heavily engorged side.

“To Gondor, with Tomí,” her husband said, using Tommy’s Sindarin name. “You are happy when you are with her, and I think it would be good to stay with the Edain.” He looked down at their eldest son, gently brushing back his golden curls. “I know I would miss my people terribly if I was not around them for a very long time.”

Glorfindel always did what she wished, and in some ways his agreeable nature broke Lucy’s heart. Perhaps it was because she took advantage of it.

In another reality, there were no children. In a third universe, there were even more. Sometimes there was an elf, tall and red haired that was gripping her hand. Briefly, Lucy caught a glimpse of a new dimension, strange and terrible. She saw herself dressed in black, sitting upon a throne and wearing a crown. There was a pale, glowing stone draped around her neck.

“You dare to defy me? _”_ the new Lucy spat, her voice echoing along the obsidian walls as she stood in a flurry of ink-colored robes. She was a beautiful, terrifying thing, overwhelmingly sexual and lush. From the darkened corners of the throne room men watched her with hunger. A deep, crackling laugh like the rumble of a volcano sounded in response. “You, who took everything from me?! How **dare** you!”

“Stop,” Lucy sobbed, curling up in the grass as she clutched at her chest, but the images kept coming. “Please stop.”

In the current reality—the one she’d been ripped from—Lucy saw the grotto. She felt Glorfindel’s loneliness and saw giant sheets of ice. Tommy was dead on the rocks. Somewhere above her there was an alien presence. If it could have felt pity for her, it would have.

_Mortals are not meant to see it,_ the being told her, inside her mind and out of it too. _This place is not for you._

“It hurts,” Lucy said, and she didn’t know what she was saying or whom she was saying it to. There might have been a hand on her head, huge and immaterial, but she couldn’t be sure. “It hurts, take it away.”

_You have been touched by a future that must come to pass_ , the presence said. _I will show you the path towards it, however. Have faith._

Then there was a sudden _something_ in Lucy’s brain, bright and brilliant and overwhelming. It was so strong she was struck dumb by it’s light, her mind abruptly shutting down.

When Lucy finally regained consciousness, she found herself lying flat on her back, her tears dried to her cheeks and her hair fanning around her. The weather was warm, the stars still thick overhead. She had no recollection of the otherworldly presence or her conversation with it.

Immediately, her mind went to _him._

“Glorfindel?” Lucy asked on a tremulous breath, her eyes filling with tears as she reached down to smooth her hand across her abdomen. When she thought of the past she recalled only one reality instead of dozens. She recalled a time where she had been hidden away in the grotto, Glorfindel’s hand on her swollen belly, his expression soft at the sight.

Their fixation on children had been a mutual one, born of desperation, she remembered: the compulsion to keep her heavy with child so they would not be parted, the word _mortal_ wielded between them like a weapon. She had forgotten, but Glorfindel had not. Neither had the person who’d kidnapped her.

_Oh god,_ Lucy thought, her breaths speeding up as she clutched at her front. _Oh god, what had happened?_ She remembered being taken away, even though it hadn’t happened yet. She remembered being swallowed by darkness. Without knowing why, Lucy started to cry in earnest. She couldn’t seem to stop.

_There is still hope_ , something told her, and as it did a balm of peace slowly crept in and began to wash over her: a numbing sensation that began to calm her nerves. The tears didn’t cease, but her fears of the past began to fade. Lucy started to think through the problem _._

She’d jumped through time, she knew, but she could theoretically jump back: she’d done it before. Gondolin had not yet fallen, and there was no balrog. Glorfindel was alive and he loved her. Lucy hadn’t been able to stumble through the portal when she’d been running in circles, but maybe she hadn’t run far _enough_. She just had to find her way home herself.

Sniffling loudly and wiping her nose, Lucy sat up. Her hair tangled with cobwebs, her cheeks stained with tears, she staggered to her feet, looking towards the end of the valley where the mountains folded into a cleft.

Grabbing the hem of her dress to keep herself from tripping, she started walking towards it.

* * *

 

Lucy continued marching for a time. She walked for what seemed like hours, surrounded by nothing but sweet grass and a gentle breeze. Her hair drifted behind her in swirls of chestnut, her skirt twining around her feet as it pressed to her front. Lucy’s hand stayed on her abdomen. If she thought back on it, her current scenario reminded her of her dreams: of the ones where she was wandering beneath a sky thick with stars, her belly large and her back bowed by its weight. Even still, she knew it was different.

Once she returned to her time, she would rectify the problem, she decided, but without the lust driving her forward her path was unsteady. She was less confident in herself and she didn’t know where to go. Lucy was heading towards the cleft because it was the most visible landmark around her, but what if there was nothing there? What if she remained lost, or starved to death? There were no animals nearby, at least none that she saw. No insects either, or mice or voles.

_There is still hope_ , she reminded herself _,_ but the constant, overwhelming need had been a buffer for the other emotions she’d been feeling, and without it all her anxieties came roaring back in a wave. She didn’t know if another baramog was waiting for her amongst the grass, or if she would be eaten by it. Lucy didn’t sense anything nearby, but she hadn’t sensed anything in the caves either, and the monster was hunting her. **Mairon** was hunting her, and there was no Glorfindel to save her this time. She didn’t even have her knife.

Swallowing nervously, Lucy picked up the edge of her skirt and walked faster.

The cleft seemed close, but that was only because it was massive. Once she reached the three-hour mark of walking, Lucy began to veer off course. Slowly at first—drifting towards the mountains instead of the pass—but when her mouth began to dry with lack of water she turned and headed towards the cliffs, searching for something to drink. The peaks were different than the mountains surrounding Gondolin: just as jagged and snow-covered, but at least three times larger, their sides sheer sheets of rock. As she neared them the grass became less uniform, intermingled with buttercups and the small white flowers that Glorfindel adored. Eventually there were even trees, or something that _looked_ like trees: stunted, scraggly pines that were shorter than Lucy herself, the tops of them barely reaching her shoulders. There was a hint of iron in the air. _The best is yet before you_ , a voice reminded her, but when Lucy craned her head back—eying the sheer size of the mountains—she doubted the thought.

Above her there was the mournful shriek of the wind whistling through an alpine pass. Nothing could scale it. The only way out of the valley was through the cleft, and if she didn’t make it she would be trapped.

The minute the thought crossed her mind Lucy tried to push it aside.

_What would Glorfindel do?_ she asked herself, trying to manage her anxiety. There was a dip in the landscape just ahead. A little gorge of sorts that—while it didn’t look like it went through the mountain proper—provided some protection. The idea didn’t help much, because Lucy knew that Glorfindel would handle the situation with ease simply due to the fact that he was an elf.

_What would Tommy do?_ she asked next, and Lucy knew that her best friend would consult her books, then play to her strengths. To be smart about what she could and couldn’t do in order to survive and get through the worst of it. Lucy knew she should probably do that too, but she had a hard time thinking of herself as a separate entity.

_Well, what am_ **_I_ ** _good at?_ she wondered as she wandered into the mountain’s shadow. She knew that she was pampered and had no survival skills to speak of. True independence terrified her, and even with her desire to drink blood she was physically weak and frail. Lucy **was** beautiful, however, and she was aware of it. She could sing and dance and act demure when she wanted something, and she loved children. The elves thought she was pretty. They also believed she was a seer.

As her hand brushed across her abdomen, she was hit with a vision so vivid it seemed like reality: with an image of a breathtakingly beautiful woman, fine-boned and laden with jewellery. The woman was reclining on a collection of pillows in the High King’s court, a fan dangling coquettishly from her fingers and a gauzy veil draped over her face. Everyone was watching her, their eyes affixed to her swollen belly. Lucy watched them in return, her breaths shallow as her hand stroked her heaving side. She could feel their hunger wafting through the air like perfume.

_May I present The Lady of the Golden Flower_ , some unseen voice announced, and in the vision _Lady_ Lucy smiled, making sure to flutter her eyelids as a faceless someone kissed the back of her palm.

_We do not allow those things here,_ something warned her, strange and immaterial. Abruptly the vision was cut off, and for the oddest reason Lucy decided that she was being judged.

She could feel what they thought of her, those immaterial beings that floated above her: how they saw her as a sad, tainted thing, all fleshy and carnal. They wondered if _he_ had sent her, to tempt The Children away from the light. Even though she knew she was probably just hearing things, Lucy grew irrationally furious at the thought.

_I am_ **_not_ ** _tainted_ , she thought in return, and if the person had been there she would have spat. Why wasn’t she allowed to have sex or want children? Why was it _expected_ of her if she didn’t want those things—forced upon her like a gleeful penance—but suddenly dirty if it was **her choice**?

_It is a flaw in mortality_ , the immaterial presence sighed, but Lucy recognized the hypocrisy as deeper than that, even if she couldn’t put it into words.

There was nothing wrong with being mortal, either, and inside her there was a growing determination to take control of her own destiny in her own image, by her own choosing. She wasn’t physically strong like Glorfindel, or book smart and adventurous like Tommy, but that didn’t mean what she did or what she wanted was worthless. She certainly wasn’t _tainted_ for wanting children for herself.

The dip in the valley was almost upon her, and as she neared Lucy began to hear the sound of running water, musical and bubbling. From where she was standing it sounded no bigger than a stream. Feeling her throat clench with thirst—and thanking her lucky stars it was thirst for water and not blood—Lucy picked up the hem of her dress and hurried towards it, trying not to trip over her own feet. In front of her the land tucked into a narrow, rocky ravine, covered in pale green lichen and dwarf-sized pines. Lucy made her way down the slope in a haphazard manner, her steps unsteady and her hand automatically going to her front to protect it as she attempted to navigate the gorge. Volcanic looking boulders—dark grey and porous—were dotting the valley. At the very bottom she could see the stream itself, thin and rapid and twining. To her right stood the mountains, barely seventy yards away. The water disappeared beneath them, it’s entrance to the underwater reservoir a collection of mossy-covered debris.

Lucy braced her hand against one of the boulders as she reached the bottom, rubbing at her heart as her breathing grew labored. Her breastbone felt tight in a familiar way, and there was a buzzing sensation in her limbs; a lightness to her fingers and a tugging, butterfly-like sensation in her gut that was telling her to go over and drink the water. It almost sounded like voices.

_There’s no one here,_ she reminded herself, shaking her head as she pushed herself away from the rock. _You’re imagining it_ . Bundling up the fabric of her skirt, Lucy hoisted it to her ankles and gingerly made her way to the stream-bed. She slowly sunk to her knees. The water was startlingly clear up close, but tinted green by all the grass around it. When Lucy cupped her hands beneath the water she jumped a bit, startled by its gentle warmth. It wasn’t cool like the water that flowed in and around Gondolin. It almost didn’t _look_ like water, but her throat was parched and she figured she had nothing left to lose, so she drank.

When she did Lucy gasped in surprise, then brought another mouthful to her lips and drank more greedily.

The water was sweet. _Addictively_ sweet in the most delicious way, and it reminded her of the tea that Morwen had fed her: bringing calm to her senses and making her nerves abuzz. She felt full of _life_. Lucy loved feeling full, so she drank some more. She drank for a while, slowly guzzling the water, and it wasn’t until she began to feel an uncomfortable tightness across her front that she finally remembered to stop.

Leaning back from the stream, Lucy wiped her hand across her mouth. She looked towards the mountains. The light didn’t change here, in this reality: from the time she’d fallen through the portal to the moment she’d reached the stream the atmosphere had remained a perpetual shade of twilight. There was no sun in the sky to set, and no moon to rise over the mountains. It meant that she wouldn’t get lost in the dark—a comforting thought—but it also meant that her ability to judge time was tenuous.

_What would Lucy do?_ Lucy repeated, and it was becoming a bit of a mantra: a way to cheer herself up and refocus her thoughts, and when she came up with nothing Lucy asked herself what Tommy would do instead. Her best friend wasn’t there, but her personality was imprinted on her mind like a brand. Tommy was smarter than her, and more familiar with Middle-earth in general. It was an easy way for Lucy to think through the problem.

“She would stay here for a bit,” Lucy told herself aloud, rubbing in discomfort at her now-bloated abdomen. She didn’t know how to construct a shelter or make a fire, but the ravine was a sheltered place, tucked away from the openness of the plains with an easily renewable water source.

Leaning back, Lucy put her hands to her knees in preparation to stand, looking to her right for a pine tree or a collection of rocks she could use to rest by for a bit. She heard the snap of a twig to her left.

Startled, Lucy turned the other way instead.

There was a boy standing there, not ten paces away from her. A red-haired boy with sharply pointed ears that was as tall as she was but didn’t look a day over ten. He was covered in expensive-looking robes, a slender hunting bow strung over his back. His bright grey eyes were so luminous they were akin to silver. A dark-haired toddler was clinging to his leg, his face slightly tanned and splattered with freckles.

Lucy simply sat there, blinking at them owlishly as she tried to process the fact that she was seeing _children._ Here, of all places. Was this really not a dream? She pinched herself again.

“Who are you?” the red-haired boy finally asked. He seemed strangely familiar, and definitely an elf. As Lucy stared at him longer, comprehension began to dawn. She hadn’t thought about the ellon for a while—and he was much, **much** younger than when she’d last seen him—but she would have recognized that crimson hair anywhere. A vision flashed in her mind of a red-haired elf gripping her hand. Three volcanoes belching smoke billowed in the distance.

“Maedhros?” she hazarded on a guess, her voice unsteady. She hoped it wasn’t true.

The red-haired boy frowned delicately. His features were intensely aristocratic, but there was an alien-ness about his aristocracy. An extreme tilt to his eyes and cheekbones that marked him as distinctly non-human, although his ears were not so pointed as Glorfindel’s.

“My name is _Maitimo_ ,” he said in strangely accented Quenya. As Lucy stared at him, the toddler clinging to his leg made a high-pitched whining noise that hurt her ears. He tugged on the edge of Maitimo’s tunic, doing a jig. The toddler lifted his arms towards the larger child in an unmistakable gesture to be picked up.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he whined, pouting mightily. The freckles on his tiny nose stoop out in sharp prominence. “Nelyo, I go up!”

“Quiet, Macalaurë,” Maitimo said softly, resting a slim hand on the elfling’s head. The toddler’s hair was the same shade as Lucy’s, but very straight, curling into delicate wisps at the ends.

Macalaurë’s lower lip wobbled. Without meaning to Lucy’s instinctual urge to pick up the child came roaring to the surface.

“But Nelyo –”

“I said _quiet_. I’m talking to someone.”

“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked in broken Quenya, still not sure she wasn’t dreaming. The two children turned back to her, the eldest frowning at her butchered pronunciation and stilted accent.

“We are hunting with our father,” he said. His nose wrinkled up further. “What is a Lady doing here? In her nightclothes?”

“I… I was thirsty.” Lucy admitted. She wasn't really sure what else to say, and a surreal sort of feeling was taking over. She was still trying to process the fact that she was having a conversation with a pair of children in the middle of nowhere, and when she did she began to process everything _else._

_“_ There was no water on your estate?” the red-haired elfling asked, startling her out of her thoughts. Beside him the toddler began to _hum_ , crouching down to pick up some rocks.

“You are shorter than I expected.” Lucy blurted out. She’d always seen him in dreams before this. Never in the flesh. The boy called Maitimo glared fiercely when she commented on his height, his wine-colored waves clinging to his temples with the heat. It was very warm where they were. A gentle breeze was winding its way through the plains around them, and the meadow was thick with flowers. Lucy kept on thinking of the vision that she’d had so many years ago with Glorfindel’s lifeless body. She was thinking of how the red-haired ellon had gripped him by the collar; how he’d towered over her in the time jump, looming amongst the blood and snow.

For one ugly, terrifying second Lucy wondered if she could kill a child to stop him from killing Glorfindel in the future. The second after, she quashed the idea. Lucy had seen his mind in bits and pieces, and she knew he was miserable. She wanted a baby so badly that the thought of killing someone else’s child made her reel with crushing guilt. Above them the sky was still cast in twilight, festooned with billions of stars. The entire thing was horribly disconcerting.

“I’m twenty,” Maitimo said, as if that would explain away his height. Even still there was a pale pink flush to his cheeks that spoke of shame: a combination of adult understanding and childlike frustration at being stuck in a too-small body and knowing people treated you differently because of it. Lucy identified with the sensation immediately. She wanted to reach out and grab his hand and tell him _I’m the same,_ but she could barely keep her thoughts coherent.

“Well I’m _eighteen_ ,” she replied. She’d meant it to be comforting, but it came off as indignant. Maitimo’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Really?” he said. Then in a rush, “why do you look so old, then? What’s wrong with your ears?”

“I’m Edain,” Lucy said, struggling to find the words. Their conversation was getting stranger and stranger the longer it went on, and she felt like an outsider looking down on the scene from above. _This is a dream_ her mind said, but her body told her it wasn’t. “I… our ears are rounded. I’m not the same as your kind.”

Maitimo frowned, his eyebrows folding together in confusion. His gesture was mimicked perfectly by the dark-haired toddler clinging to his leg. They were brothers, Lucy thought. Their faces were shaped the same.

“You mean you’re like the Teleri?” Maitimo asked.

Lucy swallowed deeply. Her mind stuttered. Her hands worried at the front of her dress as she came to the sudden, horrifying realization that she was talking to elves that had never heard of humans, much less seen one. She’d gone too far back.

Instinctively, Lucy knew that she wasn’t supposed to be there, wherever _there_ was. _Oh god_. Would she be punished?

“No, not really,” she began. “Edain aren’t Eldar. We’re… we’re Second-born.” Speaking in Quenya was difficult.

“What’s Second-born?”

“I’m second-born!” declared the toddler, pushing himself between Maitimo and Lucy in an effort to hold their attention. He held up five fingers, rocking back on his heels and jumping up and down on the spot. “I’m four!” he said, proudly waving his fingers towards Lucy. “See? You see?!”

Lucy watched the elfling with interest. “Ah,” she said, speaking through a mental haze as she tried to process the lingering shock. Children. She wanted children. Glorfindel wanted children too. They’d been a steadying force in a world that Lucy had been unfamiliar with and hadn’t been able to make sense of. Children were the only anchor that had made her feel like she belonged.

Lucy opened her arms and leaned forward a bit, gesturing towards the toddler for a hug. The child smiled shyly and began to walk forward. Maitimo frowned and tried to draw him back, but it was too late.

“Macalaurë, I said stop!” he hissed, his cheeks flushed bright pink, but already the little boy was crawling into Lucy’s arms.

The child was big. Bigger than Erestor and distinctly Noldo. Up close he had the same aristocratic features as his brother; the same grey eyes and striking eyebrows and alien cheekbones. Lucy balanced him upon her hip and stood, stumbling a bit at the weight. The elfling was fine-boned despite his size, but Lucy was very small. She smoothed away his hair, rearranging it on his shoulder. It was so silky it immediately fell back over his forehead.

“And what’s your name?” she crooned, her voice soft and dove-like. Lucy felt discombobulated. Without the child, her thoughts drifted even worse.

_I shouldn’t be here._

“Macalaurë,” the toddler said. He held up his hand again, all five fingers. “I’m four!”

Lucy smiled benignly. “I see. Where are your parents?”

“Away.”

“And why are you away from your parents?”

The child blushed, hiding his face against Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy kissed his temple. In front of them the older child fumed.

“Macalaurë!” he said in an overly loud whisper. “You’re going to get us in trouble!” The stream babbled and tossed behind him, the green water blending into the pale, lichen covered banks. Lucy began to rock the toddler back and forth a bit, readjusting his weight. She looked towards the older boy, feeling a bit like a bobble head. Maitimo was speaking a strange sort of Quenya that she was finding hard to keep up. Her response was halting in turn.

“Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

The elfling shifted uncomfortably on the spot, gripping his bow. He looked to the side. Lucy’s breastbone felt tight in that moment. There was an intangible, silent _snapping_ sensation in the air, like something was being torqued and tightened.

“Atar says we are not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy admitted, a tumble of wine-red curls falling down his front. There was a beauty mark by the right corner of his mouth, above the upper lip. “We should not have wandered so far.”

“Why have you?” Lucy asked, bouncing the toddler up and down on her hip. Maitimo’s expression became distressed, his hand clenching tighter around the strap of his bow. He was the giant from her dreams, but not. He looked less tired and drawn and haunted. He still had both his hands.

_It’s because_ _he’s a child_ , she reminded herself, but it hadn’t sunk in yet that she was speaking to him in the flesh: that this wasn’t a dream. She wanted to ask what year it was, but something prevented her. Her thoughts felt fuzzier the longer she held the toddler, but the anxiety was draining from her like a sieve. She didn’t **want** to know, she decided. Here was where she was supposed to say.

Before the boy spoke the toddler did, one of his hands twisting in the front of his royal blue tunic. The other was absently kneading at the scar tissue trailing along Lucy’s shoulder from her breast to her neck. It was a very baby-like thing to do.

“I lost my toy,” he said. His hair was in his eyes again. Somewhat awkwardly Lucy reached up, brushing it out of his face. She’d never seen an elf with freckles before. “It got washed in—in the river.”

“Down where, baby?” she asked. The toddler twisted in her arms, pointing to the babbling brook that disappeared under the mountain, past the lichen-covered collection of debris. There was a small opening along the top of the rock where the entrance and the stones didn’t meet. Lucy eyed it in contemplation.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Maitimo asked abruptly.

Lucy turned back to the red-haired boy, her eyelids heavy as she gave him a once-over. He was the most beautiful elf she’d ever seen next to Glorfindel, and she was sure when he was older he would be lovelier still. It was a different sort of beauty, however. The words for what _kind_ escaped her, but Lucy knew it to be true.

“You are not of my father’s house,” Maitimo continued, pouting slightly. “And Atar says that the maidens who are not of our house are weak.”

“Maybe,” Lucy admitted. She nodded her head a moment later. “I am not very strong. Glorfindel needs to take care of me.”

“Glorfindel?” Maitimo said, his brows furrowing. He didn’t seem to understand the name. A moment later, Lucy understood why.

“Laurëfindil,” she said, using the Quenya version of it. Maitimo’s expression grew slightly surprised.

“Is that not a Vanya name?” he began, but before he could finish his little brother cut him off.

“I think you’re pretty,” the dark haired toddler said, his tiny fingers fiddling with her braid. Lucy looked down at him with a benign expression, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was an instinctual thing: a muscle memory from a life that hadn’t happened yet. The child blushed and smiled, curling against her, his head flopping to her shoulder as his small hands pressed between them.

“Thank you,” Lucy said, rocking him more slowly. “Would you like me to help you find your toy?”

“Unh.”

“Macalaurë!” the older boy, finally taking a step towards them. “Atar will get mad!”

The toddler ignored him, and Lucy did too. She walked towards the entrance to the brook, carrying the child along the edge of the riverbank. After a moment of being ignored and an indignant _huff_ , Maitimo followed.

It was a bit difficult to carry the child, but not unfamiliar. Despite his delicate appearance Macalaurë was large in comparison to Lucy, and heavy. Her back bowed a bit with the weight of carrying him, but the weight itself was comforting. The children probably knew a way out of the valley, she realized. Perhaps they could take her to the others, and they could help her find a way back.

As Lucy neared the entrance to the stream she adjusted the child on her hip. When they finally stopped she put him down, gently placing him on his feet amongst the soft lichen and dampened grass. Macalaurë stuck his thumb in his mouth and continued clinging to her skirt. Lucy straightened, then realized his older brother was standing directly beside her, watching the stream with a frown. Maitimo’s hair really did look like wine up close, his face a statue’s, the bone structure beneath artfully carved. Without thinking, she blurted out “you look nothing like him.”

The boy turned to her, frowning. His skin the same porcelain complexion as Glorfindel’s, but the red hair made it paler.

“I don’t look like my Atar?” he asked, as if his father was the only person she could be referencing. Idril had told her who Maitimo’s father was once, but at the moment Lucy couldn’t recall his name. She blinked and shook her head, swallowing heavily. The boy watched the movement, staring at her very intently.

“No,” Lucy said, swallowing again. She blinked and swayed a bit on her feet, rubbing at her chest as she tried to take a deeper breath. It felt so tight. The elf boy reached out, gripping her elbow to keep her steady. Lucy didn’t bother to shoo him off. “No, like Laurëfindil.”

Maitimo made a face.

“Of course I don’t look like a Vanya,” he snapped. “I’m _Noldo_.”

“I Noldo too,” the toddler said, speaking around his thumb, and Lucy smiled, turning to him and gently stroking the top of his head. He hummed happily and clung to her leg, burying his face against her skirt.

“What is your name?” Maitimo asked her.

Without thinking Lucy said “Nimeleth.” The older boy nodded in confirmation and didn’t press her further, stepping towards the river to retrieve the toy. When she realized what he was doing Lucy reached out, putting her hand to her arm to stop him.

“I’ll do it,” she said. They were eye-level, but she was slightly smaller than him. She was worried about either of the children getting hurt.

“Atar said maidens shouldn’t,” Maitimo protested, then added somewhat sullenly. “Unless they are of our house.”

Lucy shrugged and de-tangled the toddler from her skirts, wandering past him into the stream. The water was warm, immediately soaking the ends of her nightgown.

“I’m smaller,” she said, and the boy looked sceptical. “It will go faster if I do it. Trust me.”

She turned back to the toddler when she was up to her calves in the water, clutching the front of her skirt as she sought to gather it around her. “What does your toy look like?” she asked. The dream-like quality to the meeting was beginning to fade, but she still felt like she was floating. _After_ , she decided. After she retrieved the toy, she would ask Maitimo what year it was. She was sure he would know.

“A horse,” Macalaurë said, twisting his hands in the front of his tunic as he pouted. “It’s wood.”

“Okay.”

Lucy turned back and moved deeper into the stream. The water was very fast moving. There were pebbles along the bottom, and walking across their slippery surface made the crossing somewhat treacherous. Trying to balance herself, Lucy gathered up the bottom of her skirt to keep herself from tripping, but it was sopping wet so it didn’t do much good. Hands outstretched, she gingerly made her way towards the entrance of the stream; a collection of oddly shaped boulders, greenish and covered in algae. When she put her hand to the biggest boulder to steady herself, the texture beneath her palm felt slimy.

“See anything?” the red-haired boy asked from the bank. Lucy shook her head and bent down to peer into the gap at the top. It was a black, mawing hole that was wider than it was tall. Through it Lucy could see nothing, but she could hear the rushing roar of the stream as it flowed beneath the hill. Lucy turned towards the bank, looking at the children. The water rushed past her ankles. She could feel pebbles between her toes.

“Are you sure it’s in here?” she asked. The toddler nodded, but the boy frowned. He tucked a lock of red hair behind a sharply pointed, leaf-shaped ear.

“It does not look safe,” he said.

Lucy gave him a small smile. “It’s fine,” she said, turning back to the entrance. “I’ll figure it out.”

At first Lucy tried to move one of the smaller rocks out of the way in an attempt to get inside. The boulders weren’t too big and the streambed was shallow, but the rocks were so slippery she couldn’t grip them when she tried to move them. When Maitimo stepped into the stream beside her to help, he couldn’t move them as well. Lucy frowned, eyeing the opening at the top. Rather impulsively she moved forward, placing her hands to the entrance and her body to the rock as he prepared to slide in.

“What are you doing?” demanded Maitimo.

“Trying to see if I can get inside,” Lucy replied. She managed to squeeze her head, hands and shoulders past the entrance; a little more wriggling and she was able to fit her swollen bust inside too.

It was a very tight fit across the top. Her breasts compressed so tightly they pillowed beneath her chin, making it hard to breathe. The sound of the rushing water was much larger inside the mountain and it was still pitch black, but a little bit of light slipped around her arm as she made her way through the opening. Squinting hard, Lucy looked down and side-to-side. She saw nothing at first, but as her vision grew accustomed to the gloom she spied what looked like a bump sticking out of the stream, stuck in the silt of the river. The toy.

“Found it!” Lucy called, but her words were mostly lost to the roar of the stream. Whatever Maitimo said to her was lost in turn. She felt him tug on her skirt a bit, but she shook him off.

“A minute,” Lucy gasped, struggling for air. She shimmied forward, her breasts flattening painfully hard against the stone, her balance unsteady as she stood on her tiptoes to try to reach the object. When she stretched out her arm, fingers wavering in the open air as water speckled her hand, she found that she couldn’t. She grunted and pushed herself forward a bit more, so her feet barely touched the ground.

Lucy heard the boy speaking through the hole beside her, raising his voice to be heard.

“I think you should come back,” he said, sounding very unsure. Lucy was bent over the rock at the waist now, half in and half out of the hole. Although her hands wavered just above the water, she was still unable to reach the object. “You might fall.”

“I’ll… I’ll be fine.” Lucy gasped. There, amongst the silt: a pair of four upended legs sticking out like twigs. Her feet left the ground as she wriggled in further, one hand trying to brace itself against the algae covered stone as the other one reached for the water.

As she slid forward her dress dipped down across her front, so low that one of her breasts popped free. Gasping in surprise, Lucy reached up to cover herself. As she did she slid forward faster. Her balanced tipped.

Then it happened.

Lucy felt herself plunging down the rock, her hips moving past the opening. She let go of her dress to try to grab the boulder, but her palms slipped against the algae and a second later she was falling with a loud _splash_ into the stream.

The water was warm and all around her, muffling all sounds against her ears. When she gasped her mouth filled with its weight. All was dark as she twisted and tumbled beneath it with the current, and she couldn’t tell which way was up or down. Lucy choked.

Something hard struck her side, then her leg as she was tossed about under the rapids. In a panic she scrabbled at anything she could grab onto, which was nothing at all. Her hands dragged through silt and pebbles, breaking nails. Her skirts tangled around her legs, her hair floating around her in a halo.

When she finally managed to rise to the surface, gasping, she found herself floating down the stream forty feet away, the water getting deeper. Her vision was blurry, and everything was dark. The only source of light was a thin sliver of white where the entrance to the stream was, getting smaller by the second. Someone was calling her name.

“Nimeleth!” they said, and then the roar of the creek became overwhelming. Gagging on water, Lucy reached out, but the stream was so rapid she could barely stay upright.

Then there was a _kock_ ; something heavy hitting the back of her head, dull and heavy as she slammed into an overhanging stone.

After that, Lucy felt no more.


End file.
